Clipped
by AnnabeeLee
Summary: Fantasy AU, winged!Sherlock. John Watson is an ex-military doctor, and has had a rather calm life since the end of his service two years ago. All if this changes when a strange winged person literally crashes into his flat one quiet evening.
1. Prologue

**Title: **Clipped  
><strong>Rating:<strong> M (for the violent beginning and later sexual situations)  
><strong>Genre:<strong> Fantasy/Romance  
><strong>Plot:<strong> John is an ex-military doctor, and has had a comfortable life for the past two years. This all changes when a man, Sherlock, literally flies into his flat one night, wounded from some unknown event. Now John has to help Sherlock get back on his feet, all while integrating the man into his once quiet life.  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> High Fantasy AU. Winged!Sherlock. Violence and blood for the first two chapters, but for the rest I would say eventual male/male romance. This is also un-beta'd, so all mistakes are mine.  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>All things owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, or the BBC is still owned by them, I'm just borrowing for the sake of a creative outlet. The world, and all original ideas are mine, and I would appreciate someone asking permission before using them.  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Due to the high fantasy nature of this, there will be notes at the end to clear up any abnormal words or ideas. If there is any confusion, please ask in the reviews or message me, and I'll clear it all up! The fic will most likely be less then ten chapters.

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><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

After weeks of the sirens blaring through the streets each night, John was more than happy to throw his window open in order to ventilate the stuffy flat. The warnings had been silent for two days, signaling all potential danger had passed onto a different realm. It had been a three week period of pure cabin fever, being stuck in his home each night, for fear that something might prey on any wandering individual caught unaware.

Below, he could hear the sounds of life, people bustling around in the streets, stretching their legs and chatting with friends and acquaintances they had been cut off from for the past days. Though he loathed staying in one more night, the clinic had left him drained, and all he wished was for a quiet night by his open window with a good book. The glow of the fire kept him company, harmonizing with the murmurs of the streets outside.

Everything seemed calmed and right for the first time since the last rift had opened near their fair capital, allowing a pack of the horrifying shades(1) to breach their unsuspecting defenses. He was all too glad to be done with treating the poisoned bites and the comforting of people as they cried over another lost loved one to the ravenous maws of their other-worldly visitors. It had been a horrible campaign, but eventually, the Fel(2) and the flying men had stepped in to help to push the thirty or so monsters out of Trias(3).

A cool breeze wafted its way into his sitting room, drawing his attention from his novel. The night sky, black from the copious city lights, was clear tonight, another first in a while. John smiled at this, content to relax, and was just about the turn back to the book lying gently in his lap when something gripped him. A burst of light, short, dull, yet most extraordinarily real appeared not 300 feet above his flat.

Swiftly, he was at his window, contemplating closing it for fear of more shades appearing, yet the realization that the bastards didn't make rifts so high above the ground was enough comfort to stop him from such an action. Yet another worry caught him when he noticed an object careening itself towards his building. Wide-eyed, he watched its descent, praying to the gods it's changed its crash-course for the outside wall. Sure enough, it seemed to take note of his wide window, and with a great struggle, its trajectory changed.

Thinking quickly and moving instinctually, John jumped out of the way as a winged man came crashing into his home, rolling forward to a stop on his stomach. John only had a moment to take in the man's sudden appearance before he was being gripped by the shoulders, nose-to-nose with the stranger. The man spoke swiftly, his words coming out in pants and broken stutters. It took John a second to waft through his initial shock to realize this person was speaking no language he had ever heard. He seemed desperate, eyes wide and skin a greyish color and John gasped when he realized this man was covered in blood.

"Hey, calm down." The man shut up at this, regarding John slowly, eyelids drooping, and his grip weakening as his legs began to give. John gripped him under the arms, noting the bare skin under his hands was heavily damaged. It was almost déjà vu from the past three weeks as he recognized the marks.

He was about the shake the stranger from going into unconsciousness when this man surged forward, arm wrapping tightly round the back of John's neck, bringing their lips together. It was not so much kissing as it was an assault on his mouth, the other man's tongue invading his despite any resistance John could muster. It ended as swiftly as it began, the stranger pulling away, panting and resting his forehead against John's shoulder.

"Um…" John awkwardly placed a hand on his back, pulling it back immediately when it touched sopping wet red flesh. It didn't take a genius to see the source of the all the blood. Out of what appeared to be seven wings, three affixed to the upper back on each side and one right on the tailbone, only three remained intact. The other four had been either been bitten through or appeared as though they had been run through the blades of some machine. "Shit…"

"Please…" The stranger picked his head up, trying his hardest to speak a known dialect, his accent somewhat horrible, yet John could make out the few words that mattered. "Please. Help me…" He gulped, trembling all over as the blood loss finally started taking its toll. "Shades…my…" He swayed, dark curly hair matted to his head with sweat and his eyes, an alarming shade of bluish grey, seemed to dim as the shock overtook him. "Wi-…" Like a flame in the rain, he was out, slumped heavily onto John as he struggled to pull the man to his kitchen, eyes set for the relatively clear table and thoughts going over what his next steps would be to help this ravaged stranger.

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><p>1- Shades are a violent predator that can move from one realm to the next. They prey largely on intelligent lifeforms, and are nigh impossible to get rid of. Traveling of packs up to fifty, they are capable of wiping out whole populations before moving on to their next target.<p>

2- The Fel are the general term for beings in the Fel realm. Known for being very helpful, friendly individuals, they often pitch in to aide other worlds with their problems.

3- Trias is the name of this realm. It is one of the four super-powers of the universes. (this will be brought up in later chapters once certain characters are introduced.)

Reviews and criticisms welcome! Thank you. Next chapter should be up in a few days.


	2. Chapter 1: Something New

**Author's Note:** A bit of warning, rather graphic description of cleaning up rather grievous wounds and a sad attempt at deductions up ahead. Also, a little depressing. Next chapter is much more upbeat compared to this one, I swear.

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: Something New<strong>

It had been a long night, possibly the longest he had had since being drafted. The stranger slept on his couch, splayed out on his front, wings draped carefully over his back. White bandages had replaced the blood, covering his right arm and shoulder and the stumps of what was left of some appendages. A makeshift splint adorned his left leg, setting the broken ankle in place.

John hadn't had much to help, just a few things from his work that he kept at home in case of an extremely unlikely injury. The painkillers and anti-biotic ointments had been an obvious choice, though he'd never thought to use the meat cleaver for anything such as amputation. He couldn't say he was too proud of the hack job he had done on stranger's wings, but slicing off the ruined tissue was a necessity if infection was to be avoided.

Now, three remained perfectly intact, though a bit ruffled from whatever event had transpired. One, the lowest on the right, was still a good three-fourths intact, with just the carpel joint having been bitten clean through. The lowest opposite it had less than that, though also less lucky. The ulna and radius had broken in half, as though the creature had whipped its head to and fro in an effort to take the wing. John had unfortunately had to hack off the ruined tissue and remove as much of the splintered bone as possible. The one above that was mostly a stump, though the humerus had not been broken in any way. He had stitched was he could, and, with time, the wounds would close, healing completely.

John hadn't had much time before, but throughout the night in-between cleaning the bloody mess, dozing off, staring at his walls, and contemplating the rather interesting turn of events, there wasn't much else to do but look over his winged stranger and his relatively interesting appendages. Now, John was no stranger to flying men. In his life, he had become acquainted with a few, all whom had been burly giants of men and woman, sporting two wings of dull white or dusty gray feathers and a rather all-mighty disposition, at least around any metal-workers(1), such as John.

This man here, however, was slim; unlike those John had met before him. His skin had an almost white pallor to it, completely opposite the flying men. Though he was tall and dark-haired, his eyes were too light, and his feathers had a colorful appearance when comparing to any winged human John had met before. They seemed predominately black, interlaced with white and varying shades of brown. While the flying men's wings were large, long, and held pointed ends, this man's were shorter, possibly twice his arm's length and ruffled. He likened it to the darting birds that could be seen flitting throughout the nearby forests, dodging trees in their haste(2).

John didn't quite know what to make of this man. He wasn't uneducated; he knew the basics of inter-realm travel, and those whom frequented the portals. This person was clearly from Exemia, the neighboring realm super-power. He had seen depictions of the world's strange inhabitants in books during his time in the higher education facilities, even fought with a rather strange individual from the aforementioned place while still in the militia who could manipulate water with his mind as smoothly as if he were breathing.

He had been led to believe that people from Exemia were of great power, and it was unwise to allow any individual from the world into your life past your career. Seeing this broken man now, laying out upon his sofa, covered in bandages and vulnerable, John couldn't really fit the stereotype with what was blatantly before his eyes.

The sun had already found its way over the horizon by the time John's guest began to stir. He had been in the kitchen, fixing himself a cup of tea when he heard a low groan from the sitting room. Forgetting his drink and hurrying the man's side, he saw his stranger blinking rapidly in an effort to pull himself from slumber. He put a hand on the back of the sofa, turning himself over so he could take a look around the room, unimpeded by the couch's back.

"Take it easy, there." John said calmly as the man shot himself into a sitting position, brow furrowed in what could be anxiety, but more likely pain. His wings were folded carefully into his back and tucked along his sides, the feathers shuddering slightly.

"I'm in Trias." He stated rather bluntly, his voice groggy from sleep, yet deeper than the panicked murmurs he had heard last night.

"Uh, yes. You took a rather nasty tumble through my window." John replied, slipping into his usual bedside manner by accompanying his gentle words with a small smile. This didn't seem to calm his patient any, and John hadn't really thought it would.

"Yes, and now I appear to be in the hands of a very capable army doctor." John was taken aback by this, yet the man paid him little mind, choosing instead to peer out the window. "Would you mind telling me how long I've been out. I would figure it out myself of course, but starting in one realm and ending in another is dreadful for telling time."

"About ten hours, sorry. How did you know I was an army doctor?" The man turned back to him, regarding him with those grey eyes.

"Obvious, isn't it?" The man winced as he shifted, one of his damaged wings brushing against the couch.

"The doctor part, yeah, but how did you get army?" John glanced at his clothes, wondering if he had worn anything to give away. Looking back at his guest, he could see a pique of interest in his face.

"The neatness of your appearance despite a night of worrying over a rather random intruder, the way you're behaving over the rather shocking event is telling to. The calm exterior says you're acclimatized to such things, and, seeing how my wounds weren't exactly your average variety scrapes and nicks, this means aforementioned is especially true for violence. Now either you were in some form of organized gang, or you were part of whatever military they have in this society. Like I stated before, obvious."

"And how did you know you were in Trias?"

"The amount of technology, the very telling style of clothing you're wearing, etc. It's not exactly difficult to differentiate between Trias and anywhere else if you keep up with the times." Once again, the stump of a wing lightly touched the material behind him, and the man hissed in response, appearing confused at the sensation. "I can't seem to get this wing to fold in. I expect the poison slowed down any healing but it's rather numb…" It was then John realized this man was not aware of the extent of the damage upon his being.

It wasn't something uncommon. People waking from some accident in the hospital, too worried about other trivial things to realize that their leg was no longer responding to the brain's command. They would notice eventually, looking down, or feeling where the missing part was. Some would cry, some would be scream and shout, followed by crying, and others would try to accept it, before falling into a some sort of depression. It was an agonizing process, and no matter how many times John had watched people go through the process, it never became any easier.

"Well, about that," John steeled himself for the approaching flurry of insults or tears, trying to ease his patient into the news. The man would have nothing for that though, swinging himself round to plant both feet on the floor. The dull thunk of the makeshift splint drew his attention to his foot. Narrowing his eyes, he curiously eyed his limb, before pulling his leg up to set it atop his other knee.

"What's this for, exactly?" He tapped his fingers lightly over the wooden bits that had been used to keep his broken ankle in place. He hooked two under the cloth keeping it all together, giving it an interested tug.

"Your ankle had a relatively bad fracture. Sorry, didn't have the materials for anything proper." The man smirked, smoothing a hand over his foot.

"How quaint." He immediately went about tearing it off, causing John to jump from his seat. Before he could even begin to tell the man to cease in his rampant destruction of the splint, it had been thrown across the floor, and he had mirrored John in standing. There was no flinch, or cry of pain in the movement, and with a few arrogantly confident steps, John was quite amazed to see that the rather terrible break had somehow healed overnight.

"Now, hang on. How is that even…"

"Bone's are little easier to heal when they're hollow, doctor(3)." He quipped, examining the room, clearly searching for something. He absent-mindedly started to peel the bandaging off his shoulder, which seemed to have healed over as well, finally resting his gaze on John. "Isn't there a mirror somewhere? A little hard to examine something on your back without proper assistance, you see…"

"Right, before…that." John tried, vaguely waving a hand in the air. The man held his eye, suspicion laced in his expression as his brow was furrowed and nose just slightly wrinkled. His wings were at half-mast, fluttering slightly.

"What's wrong? What's happened to my…" His head jerked to the side, trying to examine his extra appendages. It didn't take much time for him to give up on the fruitless task, and he went about finding a mirror. Unfortunately for him, there was such one, full length and with three separate parts to allow full viewing from any side. It had been yet another gift from Harry when he had returned from his time in the service, brought on by concern for his own wounds to tend to and his refusal for her help. The mirror had been invaluable in the past, and he had felt the need to part with it.

He regretted holding onto it when the man saw the state of his wings. His guest planted himself in front of the mirror almost feverishly; every part of him seemed to be moving erratically as he came to face his reflection. This came to an abrupt halt when he took in the sight. Time seemed to pause as his wings extended fully, suspended in the air, but his eyes darted from the three wounded ones.

With a shaking hand, he reached back; letting his digits gently, carefully, trace the edge of the most grievously damaged. Even under his mindful ministrations, the stump flinched rather forcefully, and with it, the man drew back, eyes wide, emotions of all calibers flitting through his face. Anxiously, he placed his fingers to the glass, breath coming a little faster from involuntary panic as the realization dawned on him over half of his wings were damaged beyond what his own body could properly heal.

Of all the torn people who had passed through John's line of work, seeing this man now nearly broke him. To be by this man now, staring at his feathered appendages with that lost expression, John almost had to step away. Instead, He moved forward, holding back the prickle of sympathetic tears and awkwardly placing a hand upon this stranger's shoulder. The man did not shy away, too arrested by his damaged wings to care to push away contact.

"I did as much as I could. I'm sorry." The man finally turned to John, expression oddly blank from what he had seen before, though his wings sagged in the awful acceptance.

"You did what was needed. It's fine." His words were terse, broken, though John nodded. Sometimes burying the pain of a loss was better than accepting the truth.

Not much later, after John had almost forced the man to eat something, they were seated next to each other on the couch, cup of tea in their hands. His patient, or as John had finally learned, Sherlock, was tense, at least that's what he could tell from the way he tightly gripped his mug and how his wings seemed to be held half-mast. Sherlock stared rather pointedly at the floor in front of him, hunched over ever so slightly. He must've noticed John's attentions, for the words he spoke next seemed to hold a small amount of amusement.

"Alright, you've got questions."

"Yeah, what happened to you?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, and opened his mouth to supposedly berate John, but he cut the man off. "No, I mean specifically." His patient took in a rather deep breath, casting his gaze out the window, wings sagging a bit.

"The town I live is a very quiet dull place. Nothing ever changes, which is how it's, irritatingly, supposed to go, so, when three people up and disappear right out of their homes over the course of a week, naturally, I wanted to know why. Most people assumed it was slavers, but the patterns didn't fit. Each person was too different than the next for any sort of trafficking. Any slaving company has a strict thing they're looking for when rounding up victims. Of course, my thoughts hold little sway there, and after the fourth went missing, they gathered a search team to flush out the supposed deviants."

"I'm guessing you were on the search party?" Sherlock nodded, eyes going glassy as he began to remember.

"We set out that night, me and five others. There were two possible locations, an old cavern used by travelers for a rest stop and an abandoned farm. Three set out for the cavern, while me and the other two went for the house."

"That's where it happened then?"

"Yes." He breathed, long fingers tightening on his cup. "I was the last to enter; too busy looking at some odd scratch marks on the doorway. At first, it seemed to be from a normal migratory predator, but that didn't fit with the hunting within town. It didn't take long to put the pieces together. I ran in after the others, hoping to pull them out, but I was too late. There were twelve shades. I had never seen them before outside of books and art. I almost couldn't comprehend that they were there, ripping apart my neighbors. They heard me enter, because four stopped gnawing on their convenient meal when I stepped into the room.

"I ran then, headed towards the stairs. If I could just make it out the window, I would be safe. They hit me there, or at least one did, on the landing. I could feel them, pulling on my wings. I had never felt anything akin to it, like a hammer slamming onto my bones, accompanied by their sharp teeth. I didn't realized they..." He trailed off, taking in a steadying breath before continuing, "I must've shocked them in my stress, because they let go with a howl. I made for a window then, leaping through the glass, hoping to catch some wind before they regained their senses. Obviously, I couldn't, and I hit the ground hard on one leg. I didn't have time to notice the break, because I could hear them _screaming_ after me. I ran for it, but they were gaining. It was then I notice the rip(4), and I took the chance that they wouldn't follow..."

"And that's how you ended up here." John finished for him when he clearly wasn't going to. With an impressed huff, John put his mug down and stood up. "That's quite a mishap, but now I think we need to find you a way home." Sherlock finally fixed his gaze on John at this, eyes widening at the words.

"I can't." His tone was gravelly serious,.

"What do you mean, 'can't'?"

"Unfortunately for me, doctor, my fellow people don't take to kindly to an amputee."

"Oh please." John gave his a disbelieving look when the man continued to appear adamant about his position. "It's not like you lost your leg, or half your face."

"The wings are a rather important feature on someone like me. If a few of them are missing, it's almost as if I lost my whole head. Without them, I can't do any work, which, surprisingly, is important." He snarked, standing as well by now, expression both challenging and almost begging the doctor not to send him back. "Besides, I doubt they'd even let me back in. Exemia's not particularly keen on damaged goods." John was unsure of what to do in this position. He knew mostly nothing about Exemian culture, but it seemed logical that if someone said that going back home would be detrimental, then there was little chance of them lying.

At least, that's what John told himself, for a small part of him, a part that he hadn't experienced since his time in the military, was eager for this change. He wanted something to do, something to come home to other than an empty flat. The possibility of anything exciting kept him from heading to the Realm Transportation Department right at that moment. His occupation allowed for an easy flow of money. Doctor's were rather glorified in a place where mechanical accidents, random violence, and rampant sickness were a sure thing in all classes. He would have to dip into in his savings to care for the man, but the strain wouldn't be extreme. Though, it would be easier, to go and have the officials collect Sherlock, take him back to Exemia. He would be able to receive proper care, be closer to any family that could help, and John could go back to his life, back to monotonous days and lonely nights.

It was this thought that decided it for the doctor, as he gave Sherlock an exasperated glance before letting out a decided huff of air. "Fine," He began, and Sherlock perked his head up, wings following the motion unconsciously. "I wouldn't be able to send you off without wondering how you were doing anyways. You will stay here for the time being, but if something comes up and it would be best if you went back, you will go to Exemia." Despite the last part, for the first time since he had tumbled into John's flat, Sherlock broke out into a fantastic smile, his wings moving minutely with the joy that he appeared to be feeling. John couldn't help but mirror the contagious expression.

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><p>1- Metal workers is the common term for one of the three peoples that inhabit Trias. They are named such do to their natural inclination to technology and invention.<p>

2- Due to the area in which Sherlock would've lived in Exemia, the wing shape would most likely resemble any non-migratory bird's, such as a crow's, while the flying men's are more like an albatross.

3- Sherlock's species has a rather rapid healing rate, which is why he's confused over the splint. His bones and tissues are able to knit together much quicker than most other evolved beings. His wings, however, were infected with a venom that slows down this healing rate, therefore they would be unable to heal over night unlike his ankle.

4- Rip is the common term for a tear between two worlds. They generally appear and disappear within the same day.

Please review. Thank you!


	3. Chapter 2: An Unexpected Visitor

**Author's Note:** A little later than I wanted, but this chapter was a little hard to write. Introduction of some important characters, setting establishment, and exposition up ahead! The next chapter is going to be rather silly. Still unbeta'd, so all mistakes have eluded my notice the three times I edited this.

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><p>"John? Are you in? I was just wondering if you had any pain medication I could borrow. I seem to have run out, and oh!" John popped his head into the sitting room just in time to see Mrs. Hudson, his landlady, jump at least a meter backwards as she came into view of the winged man, Sherlock, who was lounging on his front on the couch. His eyes lazily opened and he regarded her with a lethargic sort of once-over before giving her a curt nod. Immediately after she nodded her head in reply, he resumed his dozing, curling onto his side with his front facing away from the mild disturbance. His wings flapped once in annoyance, sending a few papers on their way round the room before he lay still once again.<p>

"Oh, John, I didn't realize you had anyone in. Otherwise I would've knocked." She stammered when she noticed John. The older woman seemed completely off put by this less than usual visitor to the flat. "Is he a friend or…?"

"No, he's my, er, patient. Tumbled in through the window two nights ago." Mrs. Hudson's apprehension switched clearly to confusion, and, with another irritated twitch from Sherlock, John led his landlady into the kitchen, as to give the man some peace. He slept a lot, especially on the couch, even though John had provided him with the spare room. The doctor wasn't quite sure how much sleep one such as Sherlock was needed to get, but he assumed it was due to his injuries and stress upon his body that he was requiring the copious amounts of rest. When he wasn't sleeping, he was reading. Already, within the two days of being awake, he had gone through half of John's collection, devouring whatever reading material he could get his hands on. Nothing from a medical journal to a rather sordid romance novel Harry had left the last time she had come round was safe.

"He's very strange looking, isn't he? Is he one of the flying men from the mountains?" She was keeping Sherlock within view from the corner of her eye, glancing non-discreetly at his bare back.

"No, he's from another realm, it would seem." Mrs. Hudson, kind as she was, had a very minimalistic view on the world outside of the metal-worker's claimed territory.

"Oh, what's happened to his back? That's not normal, is it?"

"No, he says he was jumped by a pack of Shades."

"What? They're back?" She almost had a miniature panic at the thought. "I thought we just rid of them!"

"Yes, well, he wasn't attacked here. It was in his home world."

"Poor dear. I should leave you two alone, and let him rest." She made her way out, only after John had supplied with the medication. Staring at the door, he didn't see Sherlock get up, nor sense his commencement of finding the perfect spot to cause John to jump out of his skin when he finally noticed the other man.

"Is she always like this on the anniversary of her husband's death?"

"Damn it!" John was sure he hit his head on the ceiling, not expecting Sherlock to appear right behind him. "Could you make a little noise when you move?" It wasn't the first instance of this happening in their brief time together. The winged man, despite the fact that he had a lot more to maneuver, was exceedingly adept at noiselessly popping up where ever he pleased. John didn't really see how this particular skill had any usefulness in the domestic environment, or why Sherlock seemed keen on implementing it if only to give John a miniature heart attack every few hours. "Anyways, what are you on about?"

"Mrs. Hudson. Is she always so forgetful or is it only around the anniversary of her husband's death?" He sounded mildly bored, as if asking seemingly random questions was the only way to cure his lethargy.

"I suppose…" It was then, after a moment of silence, that what Sherlock had asked clicked. "How did you know she was widow?" Sherlock merely smirked, wandering through the room till he came upon a novel he hadn't read yet. "No, seriously, how do you know all these things?"

"Are all of the people Trias this dense? Or do you just go around asking unnecessary questions all the time?" He replied, thumbing through the light book while John scowled at this.

"No, that's generally how conversations go."

"Dull, slow, boring."

"My apologies for not have mind-reading powers." Sherlock glanced at his over his pick, rolling his eyes.

"Its not mind reading, John. Its observing, seeing what's right in front of you. If we had to go around asking about the obvious parts of people's lives, nothing would ever get done in Exemia."

"So then all of you are like this? Knowing everything about someone before you even talk to them?"

"Not everything, but all of the trivial parts, yes." He was back on the couch, nose deep into the book of his choosing, which seemed to be the end of the conversation. With a frustrated sigh, John decided it was best not to pursue this particular quirk any longer.

It had been a quiet afternoon once they had settled in, and the next morning John had found himself at work for the first time since what they were calling 'the incident'. At least, that's what John had been referring to it as. Any mention of the night was met with a stony silence and a possibly an immediate change of subject. John hadn't expected anything less, and when he was called away to the ward for a rather taxing day, he felt reluctant to leave Sherlock without any assistance, not that the man seemed to need it. It just seemed ethical to arrange for Mrs. Hudson to pop in every hour to check on the still recovering foreigner.

Ten hours later, and after a rather frustrating round of shopping at the marketplace, he was sitting in a carriage, shifting with impatience at the relative slow pace that the driver was taking. The vehicle sputtered quietly along the cobblestone streets, jolting its occupants with every crack or divot in the road. Outside, in the dusk hours, with both suns reaching low in the sky, people were bustling to and fro, making their way home from various careers. A few other carriages, some private, others public, lazily rolled by, the late sunlight glinting off their various bronze and copper parts. Some were still being pulled by the yusuei(1), their six hooves clacking loudly against the stone, while others, such as John's, were driven on motors, casting off a thin white fog that curled and dissipated into the skyline.

It had been this way as long as John could remember. People moving busily to and fro, and those hell-bent on the old ways kept the yusuei well used, while other's embraced more modern means of transport. John was near the middle, fastidiously taking whichever means that was available at the moment and not giving a damn about which side won over the other. The only part of the latest innovations he would not accept were the zeppelins, which were mainly in use to transport those with the money for fast travel between the metal-worker's vast territory. John had ridden in the flying machines during his military days, and even after all the time spent inside them, their buzzing, creaking, and clanking unnerved him, especially so far from the ground. The place of a metal-worker, no matter the talent, was firmly on the dirt and rock, not in the air(2).

Pulling up to 221B was always a relief, especially after a tiresome day patching up the wounded, treating the diseased, and comforting the dying. Paying his driver, John stepped onto the sidewalk, shifting his wares around and heading for his door, only to be stopped by an odd carriage parked just outside his flat. Sleek and obviously expensive, is was drawn by two copper yusuei, their six muscular legs stamping and thick necks tossing in impatience, blunt teeth and round muzzles clacking around their bits. They gleamed in the pre-dusk light, their bristles shining from excellent grooming.

One gave a wary glance to John, its four yellow eyes giving him a once over before the drive rose from his nap, shouting at the steeds to calm themselves. They did so, begrudgingly, though they chattered to each other in low clicks and whistles. "Bastards." The driver mumbled before settling back down, pulling his hat over his eyes and going back to napping. It was easy to assume that this person, if they were in his home, were there for Sherlock. Abruptly, John turned to his flat, keen getting in, a sneaking suspicion already forming in his mind as he raced up the steps.

"Sherlock?" He called out, cold flush going down his spine at the possibility of someone bothering the man, or worse.

"Ah, Dr. Watson!" Came the rather cheery voice as he entered his sitting room. Its owner was a tall man, dressed impeccably in a rather pricy looking ensemble, and leaning lightly on an umbrella of all things. He smiled at John, taking note of the things in his hands. "Care for some help with that?"

"How did you get into my flat?" It was one of at least fifty possible questions, though most likely the least offensive. The second best one went somewhere along the lines of 'Who the hell are you?' but that seemed a just a tad impolite.

"Your landlady was very keen on letting me in when I informed her I was here on behalf of my brother." John wandered carefully over to his sitting room table, dropping his purchases onto it unceremoniously.

"You're Sherlock's brother?" The distinct lack of extra feathery appendages threw John off, though the slightly uncomfortable feeling that seemed to exude from the man helped to the claim of being at least from the same world.

"It is essential for one to blend into their current society, but if it'll help you put your mind at ease…" If it was possible, he straightened even more, relaxing his shoulders while doing so. It was then six wings, full and well groomed, burst into reality from seemingly nothing. They seemed to fill the room with their presence, and John had to take a step back to take it all in. Where Sherlock's were black, this man's were brown, infused with a deep red. Their shape was similar to his patient's, yet notably bigger. It was rather amazing to see such things unmarred. With one last twitch, they disappeared as strangely as they'd come, leaving behind nothing but a memory of their presence.

"How do you do that?"

"It's a rather common ability. Can't go around places, bumping into people(3)." He gave a rather unnerving smile at that, in which John only nodded back. He briefly wondered if he'd ever be used to these strange people.

"Right, now how did you know he was alive?"

"A rather strange thing. Shades typically leave behind certain, shall we say, recognizable parts when they're done with a meal. When I heard of Sherlock's disappearance, it didn't take long to find a lack parts to find, and with the little monsters coming from this realm, well, you can put two and two together, I imagine."

"I'm guessing you're here to check up on him then. He's upstairs, if you haven't-"

"Oh no, I assume he doesn't want to see me."

"Why is that?"

"We have what you might call a… difficult relationship, I'm sure you understand."

"Right, then why are you in my flat?" He had never been one for surprises, especially strange foreigners in his home. "Rather clever, showing up un-announced, but you could've just sent a letter, or arranged something."

"I'd rather he did not get involved. Our last meeting ended rather…explosively." John frowned at this, wondering at the implications before the man continued. "However, I would like to know what you are going to do about my brother? I know he didn't leave his little adventure unscathed, and I'm certain you could help him in some regards."

"I was hoping to just let him stay here until he could get himself sorted. Are you here to take him back?"

"No, not unless you want him off your hands? A person such as him can be handful without the proper stimulation."

"Is there anything to be gained if he goes back?" There was a glimmer of hope in John's mind at least. More than anything, he wanted to see Sherlock's livelihood returned. The man regarded him for a moment.

"Unfortunately, no."

"No? Isn't there some Exemian that can help him?" The man didn't seem to bother to answer that, which didn't help John building irritation. "There isn't anyone who can fix him?"

"If something is poisoned by the 'shades', as you people call them, Exemian healing can be of no use. Nothing obtainable in any of the realms has the ability to regenerate a limb lost from such a predator."

"But you said I could help. If no one can heal him then…"

"I didn't say anyone couldn't replace the wings, Dr. Watson." It dawned on him then, oddly enough, so suddenly, he almost got a headache from the second realization that he hadn't thought of something so obvious. It was common practice, among metal-workers, to acquire mechanical replacements for lost limbs. Even some wealthy individuals would purposely replace skin for metal in hopes to be closer to their obsession. John had just assumed that the Exemian power would be the key, not such a mundane solution.

The man seemed to read his mind, for his next words were accompanied by a smug smile. "You people really hold us too highly in your minds." John pursed his lips at that, but the man continued before he could comment. "I trust you know someone skilled in the craft?" Staring off at the wall, a name swam into John's mind of an old acquaintance,

"Yeah, I do." A new problem occurred to John, and he cast a glance towards his guest. "Hang on, how am I supposed to get Sherlock to agree to this? It's not like any of you enjoy our 'ways'." He gestured vaguely around his room. He knew he was basing this off stereotype, but it seemed like a valid point.

"It's true that Exemian…" Sherlock's brother took in a rather deep breath as he thought over his next words. "Fondness for your technological aspects is somewhat nonexistent, yet I believe that he will do what is best. Anhelans cannot go without flight for very long without losing what little sanity they might've had to begin with."

"Sorry, Anhelans?"

"Oh, how rude of me. I had hoped my brother had educated you on the matter. Our flying men, as you call them. Half of what Sherlock and I are. It's not generally a conversation piece to explain our heritage. Tends to drag on(4)." He ended with another tight smile.

"Right. How exactly am I to afford wing replacements? I can't expect them to be very cheap, seeing how the demand for them is mostly likely a solid zero."

"I'm willing to pay for the amount, and any accessory needs that will surely crop up in the care for my brother, so long as I am given reports every now and then."

"Of what, exactly?"

"I just want to see how he's getting along." John mulled this over this over for a moment. "The first payment is on your kitchen table, along with a few of Sherlock's things that I could scrounge from his home before the town ransacked it. A few clothes, of course so you can get him to a tailor to better fit in without people staring too much. Also, here." He hand John a rather large book. Bound in some sort of animal hide, and the words 'Exemia: A Field Guide' printed in a bold emerald, it appeared brand new. "This should make things easier when some quirks spring up."

"Oh, of course." Another thing John had forgotten about in the rush of the previous events. The man stepped forth to shake his hand in goodbye, clearly making for the exit.

"I'm sure Sherlock will find something to enjoy about this place." He assured, clapping a hand on John's shoulder, a very strange twinkle in his eye. "Do take care, Dr. Watson." With that, he left, swinging his umbrella round quite enthusiastically. John merely stood, rooted to the spot, not quite sure of what just happened.

Two hours passed before Sherlock made an appearance, wandering into the room yawning with a rather thick quilt wrapped around his waist. This seemed to be his outfit of choice, seeing how John's clothes didn't fit and nothing would be able to go over his wings. It didn't stop the rather immediate flush that hit John at the sight of him. He turned back to his newspaper, stubbornly ignoring the want to casually appreciate the sight. With strong internal reprimand for the thought, he shuffled the papers, clearing his throat as Sherlock came to sit down on the sofa opposite him.

"I'm beginning to wonder if all of this sleep if actually helping you." He had yet to open the expansive novel Sherlock's brother had left for him. The daunting task excited him the point of putting it off for a night, choosing instead to catch up on the world directly outside of him.

"I wouldn't imagine it would do anymore harm." The man sniffed the air pointedly, and if John had been peeking over the top of his paper, he would've seen Sherlock scowl in obvious dislike. "My brother's been round."

"Yeah, mind filling the class in how you knew that? Did you hear him through your door or…?"

"Mycroft wears a very distinct scent whenever he wanders outside of whatever grandiose hovel he's inhabiting at the moment."

"How could I not have noticed?" John replied, rather sarcastically. There was a moment of silence before something popped into his head. "How did he manage to get through so quickly? I've never been, but I hear that moving in-between isn't a fast process."

"He's an Ambassador for Exemia. What did he leave for me?"

"Some clothes, and some sort of instrument, I think…" At this, Sherlock was off of what was slowly becoming his sofa and into the kitchen. He came back a moment later with the wooden object in one hand, and some sort of stick in the other. Experimentally, he brought the object to his shoulder, resting his chin upon the broader end while placing the stick, which seemed to have some sort of wire or long hairs attached to it, parallel with the wood, upon the four strings seated atop the instrument. A rather mournful note came from it as he dragged the stick across the strings.

"What is that?" John asked curiously. Music was a rather uninteresting subject to the metal-workers, preferring the sounds that came from their precious steels over anything artistic. That sort of art was reserved for the high class and flying men to appreciate.

"A violin. Comes from the mortal realms(5). I'm surprised he bothered to bring it…" With the rather affectionate expression Sherlock held as he gazed upon this instrument, John decided it was time to take a look into that book after all.

* * *

><p>1-Yusuei (pronounced you-ah-saw. I will never go in depth about phonetics. Ever.) are the horses, oxen, generic steed of Trias. They have the genetic equivalency of dogs, meaning they come in many shapes, sizes, and colors. This particular breed is used only for carriage pulling.<p>

2-Metal-workers have a strange industrial society, with technological advances in some aspects and yet none in others. They are completely reigned by their government and religion, making many aspects of life very strict. It is also a very capitalistic society with a class system.

3-Sherlock and Mycroft's species, when at the pique of health, can 'hide' their wings, and even make them able to move through thin layers of clothes at will.

4- Their 'species' will actually be completely revealed next chapter.

5- 'Mortal realms' are the common name for places like the our world. There's dozens of them, each differing from the other, though with the same concepts. Trade between them is very free, so obtaining a violin would be moderately easy. Also, on music in Trias, just for an interesting fact, the three main arts (writing, visual art, and music) are split between the three peoples. Metal-workers adore novels, poems, and plays, while the flying men praise paintings, sculptures, etc. The third group has singing and instrument playing.

Thank you for reading! Please review. The next chapter will take a little longer to get done since its the holidays in all.


	4. Chapter 3: Familiarizing

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the long wait, for anyone that was waiting. It took a while to decide on what to and what not to put into this, plus holiday times are ever so busy, but, in light of the new episode of Sherlock, it was time to update. My main hope is that I haven't gotten anyone out of character due to the changing around I did with their genetics. If I have, let me know so I can fix it in later chapters. Please enjoy!

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><p><strong>Chapter 3: Familiarizing<strong>

_Exemia: A Field Guide(1), page 5. Introduction: The Exemian populous is comprised of seven different amazing peoples, all with odd quirks, needs, and pleasures not found in most other realms. Each one holds themselves by a genetic guideline that dictates their various personalities and allows for easy identification and relative predictability. This book will help you walk through the different peoples of the mysterious and wondrous Exemia so you too can understand their varied and often confusing ways._

The fact that his house guest was something he really hadn't ever encountered before slammed home the next morning. John had always prided himself on being a light sleeper, so, when he awoke with his bed completely stripped of everything save himself and the mattress, he felt that the yelp he let out was completely justified. The suns had still not risen and yet he found himself out of his bed. The chill in the early morning air forced him out of the usual sleepy disorientation straight into righteous fury, and, with a glass candle in hand and a robe thrown hastily over his bedclothes, he stomped down the stairs to his sitting room. There was but one individual with the audacity to commit such a heinous crime. Of course, he was also the only other person in the flat.

"Sherlock!" He all but screamed as he entered the room. He expected to see a mountain of blankets and pillows piled on top of the foreign man as he huddled under them for warmth. Earlier, Sherlock had been complaining of the relative cold of Gueir(2), even as he was wrapped in all of John's spare quilts and coverings. His home must've been relatively warm, seeing how the clothes his brother had dropped off seemed to be made for warmer climates. None of this mattered now, seeing how John was the one left freezing in the night.

Oddly enough, Sherlock and the stolen property were not situated on his couch. In fact, they were nowhere in the sitting room. The glass candle cast out a dull glow as John realized that all coverings, pillows, and anything remotely soft and transportable were stripped from the room. Even the plush fur hide of a chzzin(3) that John kept upon one of the shelves of the bookshelf was absent. Bemused, perplexed, and mildly curious, John turned back to the hall, aiming for the guest bedroom in an effort to find his patient and all of the missing items.

The door to the room was, as to be expected, closed, though certainly not locked. It seemed that the eccentric man had some sense of decency, and John carefully opened the door, wincing as it squeaked from lack of use. He held up his glass candle, casting the light round the room and nearly laughed at the sight that formed in front of him.

There, in the middle of the room, was what could best be described as a nest, situated a top the guest mattress, which had been dragged off its frame. The frame itself was pushed against the far wall, making room for the makeshift, lumpy monstrosity that had been put in its place. The shape was almost conical, almost four feet high and seven across, and constructed of what appeared to be books, sheets, quilts, and towels. From the topmost part, Sherlock's wings spilled out, resting lightly as the rest of him disappeared underneath what was recognized as John's own blanket, the sight of which ruined any amusement or odd affection John had felt at the moment, leaving only the barren fury as he recalled why exactly he was in the room in the first place.

"Sherlock!" He called out, determined to wake the man as to retrieve his misappropriated items. No reaction came from the nest, and so John tried again, this time louder. An intact wing, most likely an upper on, flapped in possible irritation at him, which of course only served to fuel John's own annoyance. He walked over, and yanked on the offending appendage. With a strangled cry, Sherlock literally fell out of the side of his creation. After a moment of unattractive flailing where Sherlock's arms and wings seemed to forget their perspective place on the human body, the man glared at John, wings wrapped forward round his abdomen, groin, and thighs, covering his nakedness. John determinedly did not feel a little warm at the sight of the man, disheveled from sleep and cloaked only by his glossy feathers.

"That was extremely uncalled for." He stated, leaning back on his elbows, his expression doing very little to mask his apparent distress over the recent turn of events. "I was trying to sleep."

"As if you don't sleep enough." John sneered, suddenly wanting very much to get out of the room and into the safety of his own hovel, which of fantastically free of any naked persons. "I want my pillow and my blankets back, thank you."

"I was using them." Sherlock stated a little too calmly.

"And so was I before you decided you needed them for your…nest, here!"

"It's not a nest, John. It's a nebwau. Nests are for birds, which, if you haven't noticed, I am not." He snapped, snatching a stray sheet, thankfully not John's, and standing up with his firmly round his waist. His wings went into an odd position, half-bent, flared and upright, their tips towards John as they flittered uneasily. John would think back on it later as a rather astounding sight, but at the moment he honestly didn't spare it a thought.

"I don't care what you call it, so long as I get my damn things back!" They continued to glare at one another before Sherlock bent, keeping his sheet in place, and with a huff, tossed the bundle that was John's blankets at him. John caught, examined the contents, and then rolled his eyes in frustration. "And my pillow?" The man stood still for a moment, mulling over his next options before begrudgingly digging through the mess that had been his bedding and then throwing him it as well.

"Where you sleeping on it?" Sherlock pretended not to hear him as his went about reconstructing his bedding. "Right." John turned to leave, a pillow nearly missing his head on his way out. With a small smile, he made his way back to his bedroom in hopes of catching some more sleep before his shift in a few hours.

_Exemia: A Field Guide, page 127: Anhelans are the most social, optimistic, curious, and pleasure seeking of the Exemian seven._

John scoffed at this, taking a glance over to his guest, who was nose deep in a psychology text, of all things. The man seemed to be steadily running out of material to read.

_Recognizable by their odd number of wings(4), ranging from numbers of three to nine, they are most often found in the hills and valleys of Exemia in large towns where they enjoy warmer climates. An anhelan is a wonderful companion due to their natural happy disposition, though if they do not feel a strong affection for you, they will leave and forget you ever existed. A creature with a severe need for entertainment, they will not bother with anything that they deem 'boring', even if it means taking them out of their own lethargy. They are stricken with a severe lack of patience, and need constant entertainment in order to avoid depression, though this is not helped by their short attention spans and curiosity.  
><em>

Unsure of what to make of that, John continued on.

_Anhelans take much and give little back. They have a tendency of using anyone to get what they wish, and, if in a dire situation, will fail to help another__ unless that person is their child, or has something that they need. _

A little scary, that whole society could be based around greed, yet he wondered briefly what kind of person wrote this book. He'd have to ask Sherlock later. Shifting through the rest of the chapter on Anhelans proved to be pointless.

"Sherlock?" The book seemed to have nothing on habits, adolescence, or anything that might prepare John for what Sherlock might do next. Though it did have a few interesting caricatures of Anhelan people.

"Hm?" He didn't seem to bother to look up from his own book, thumbing quickly through the pages. These quiet evenings seemed almost blessing. Sherlock was fantastically calm after their little incident earlier, even so far as happy.

"What are you, exactly?" For a moment, he wondered if it was a rude question. He had skipped the part on etiquette, though his guest didn't seem care at all.

"Anhelan on my senwei's(5) side, and Dekin on the other." Sherlock answered in a dismissive sort tone. John took that in, thumbing through the guide till he came up the entry on Dekins.

_Exemia: A Field Guide, page 342: Dekins are one of the oddest people you could ever encounter._

This was already not boding well. The chapter seemed shorter than the rest, and this author's track record of useful information was fantastically awful already.

_Apathetic, highly logical, stubborn, and completely domineering, Dekins are the foremost leaders of the Exemian culture. Due to this, they spend little time with one another, choosing to be around other people. They often disregard frivolous things, such as emotions, claiming them to be weak and useless(6). When working on any project, they obsessively throw themselves into it, doing little else until seeing its completion.  
><em>

John sighed, closing the book. He'd have to try again some other time.

After his shift at the ward the next day, John came home to Sherlock lazing around on the sofa, plucking absentmindedly at his instrument, wings tucked firmly into his sides as he stared unseeingly at the wall. One glance over at his bandages, and John went to the kitchen to grab fresh linen and the salve for the wounds. The ones covering Sherlock's wound were horribly dirty.

"I'm going to have to clean your wounds, Sherlock." John called from the kitchen table, trying to find the gauze. He was sure it was there this morning. The plucking stopped abruptly and he heard the tell-tale scramble of feathers and limbs that suggested Sherlock was making a move. Turning and peering into the sitting room informed John that the winged man had made a run for his room. "Sherlock?" Confused, he looked back to the table, and that's when the situation clicked. The man had decided to hide the ointment and gauze in a childish attempt to avoid the inevitable.

The last time had been a relative unpleasant affair for both of them. Sherlock had struggled every second during the task, and John had found it difficult to replace the old bandaging while wearing the thick leather gloves Sherlock had insisted he put on before coming into contact with his wings. Those of course were still on the table where John had left them, taunting him with their presence. "Damn it, Sherlock." He muttered under his breath as he began to check the kitchen for the missing items.

It didn't take long to find the tin of ointment. Placed in one of the ingredient jars, it had been buried under two pints of sugar. The gauze was a tad more difficult, but thankfully in his frustration he had decided to sit upon his bed for a moment after an hour spent looking for the damned item. It had been hidden hastily under his bed, and, with the tin of salve and the slightly squashed gauze, he made his way into the sitting room once more, feeling triumphant and slightly ticked.

"How in Trias did you get up there?" Sherlock had strategically placed himself atop John's tallest bookshelf, laying on his front as his wings and legs dangled over the edge. He had rested his head on his arms and now peered at John under bored eyelids. He shrugged at the question, making no move to get down. "Why in the afterworld did you hide these?" John indicated the items in his hands.

"I was bored." Sherlock muttered, turning his face to the wall.

"Right. That's why you've placed yourself conveniently out of reach when I found them. No matter what you say, I'm not an idiot, Sherlock."

"Obviously. You found them in less than two hours. I predicted it might take at least three. Very nice."

"Yeah, well, could you get down so I can change your bandages and get on with my evening."

"That's not necessary."

"Oh?"

"There is a zero percent chance of my wounds getting infected, therefore eliminating the need for the continuous care you insist on." He was staring at him now, his pale eyes gleaming with the challenge of trying to convince John that the task was completely extraneous. Unfortunately for Sherlock, the fact that he was still new to the language and that John was a very adamant and thorough doctor kept this possible change of mind from ever coming to pass.

"First off, you can't know that for certain. Secondly, the old ones are starting to stink, and are a complete mess, so if you would please get down off of your perch, we can get this over with." The man seemed to let this sink, obviously contemplating some other form of excuse for the care to take place. Thankfully, he seemed to give in, hopping down rather gracefully from the bookshelf, and allowing John to lead him to the sofa. He grabbed a bowl filled with warm water and three rags before joining the silent patient.

Once situated accordingly, John pulled on the thick gloves and carefully pulling off the old gauze. In the time that it had been on, the salve had become sticky, making removal a rather arduous process as Sherlock's wings shook and shuddered from every small touch. Clearly, he would have to up the dosage for the pain medication John had been forcing the man to take. Sherlock let out a heavy sigh as he removed the last of the bandages on his lower left wing, hunched over and seemingly trying his best to stay still.

With the wound in full view, John could see healing was taking process, albeit slowly. The gash was stitched close thanks the less amount of bone that had been around to impede the stitching process. Working quickly, John used the rags and water to wipe off the old salve before applying the new. Sherlock hissed at the contact, the wing involuntarily jumping in John's hand as he smoothed the soft linen over the sensitive area. By far, this wing was the easiest to clean.

The next one was also anti-climactic, with only a small amount of struggle, seeing how it was also mostly stitched, and the salve had gloriously not created a severe adhesive between the gauze and the wound. It was what John had begun calling, silently, 'the stump' that caused the worst tension. He had been unable to sew most of it due to the width and location, leaving the wound open. He has cauterized it to reduce bleeding, but the healing was slower than the other two and it was also extremely sensitive. Though Sherlock was adamant on the statistics of infection, the doctor in John still worried over it.

The blackened flesh greeted John as he peeled away the gauze, and Sherlock shuddered as he did. He held gently to the base of the man's wing, stroking his thumb over the feathers in an attempt to soothe him, but it didn't seem to help as what was left of the appendage trembled when he began cleaning it.

"It's almost over." John found himself whispering, applying the salve. Sherlock let out a pained groan, and the doctor had less than a second to realize that one of his upper wings was careening toward his head in some sort of instinctual frenzy. Acting more than thinking, he dropped the one he was holding to grab the appendage from smacking him in the head. Sherlock straightened at the rough handling, as his wing flapped useless by John's head, bushing his face with some of its feathers, covering his vision in black and brown. Their softness surprised him. He hadn't paid them much attention when he'd originally cared for the wings on the night of the incident, but now, feeling the smooth caress as they tickled his skin, he almost turned his face into them, almost pulled his glove off to touch them with his bare fingers…

The wing was pulled swiftly from his hand by a rather disgruntled Sherlock, who glared at him over his shoulder for the momentary lapse in care. John felt the blood race to his cheeks, unsure of what had just happened, and proceeded to finish his work. There were no more interruptions or even movements from the patient during the rest of treatment.

Once John had released Sherlock, the man had moved swiftly out of reach, to the far chair, pulling his wings to his front, smoothing out any ruffled feathers and picking off any debris meticulously. He glanced up every few moments, when he found himself a disheveled spot, to glower at John, certainly blaming him for bringing about the need to preen. It was certainly hypnotizing to see the man clean the wings, as he found himself enraptured by the way the long fingers smoothed over the plumage, threading through the soft down, their paleness a sharp contrast to the naturally dark quills.

Sherlock seemed to revel in the attention John was paying him, relaxing under his gaze, the limbs that weren't under his fingers care stretching out coyly as what appeared to be an open invitation to look upon them. The want to touch came again as he unconsciously shifted forward, his own fingers flexing unconsciously at the thought it. Sherlock peered up once again, catching John's gaze, who looked away guiltily at the knowing smirk on Sherlock's mouth. He opened his mouth, yet thankfully Mrs. Hudson choose that moment to enter the flat, carrying some leftovers from her own supper, which was the most welcome of distractions.

"Oh, I seemed to have made too much, and there's no way I could eat it all in the coming week, so I thought you two might like it." She simpered, placing it in the kitchen. John smiled, knowing she could easily save the meal and stood to thank her. Sherlock tucked the wings in at her presence, eyeing the food with either disdain or want, John couldn't completely tell. She smiled, murmuring something about not wanting his guest to cause more strain on John in his ear. Her helpful nature was blessing.

Once they had eaten, or in Sherlock's case, inhaled, the meal, they settled into their respective places, with John on the couch with the daily paper, and Sherlock plucking once again on his instrument. The twangs of the strings were minutely distracting, though easily ignored. John was sure if the man had wanted to thoroughly aggravate him, he would try harder. The front page of the paper stated in bold letters the death of a local banker, which John choose to skip for a moment, instead alighting on one about the arrival of a prominent Exemian ambassador, which sparked the memory of what he still needed to do with his guest.

"Sherlock?" The man hummed in response, still concentrating on his mindless plucking. "Tomorrow, I was hoping to take you to a tailor, and possibly get some proper bedding for your…nest."

"Nebwua." Sherlock corrected, allowing John to know that he was indeed listening.

"And maybe, if you felt it would benefit you…"

"Visit someone about getting prosthetic replacements?" Sherlock finished, now fully watching John with a curious gaze, who fidgeted slightly under it.

"Ah, yes. If you wanted, of course."

"And how exactly could anyone produce such a thing?" He challenged, moving slightly forward in his seat, violin in his lap and wings twitching in interest.

"I'm assuming someone has done replacements for the flying men. If it comes to it, we'd have to see to getting some form of schematics for them but, that would mean you'd have the possibility of flying again." It was strange having this conversation with the man. His patients, if they needed the prosthetics, would be more than happy to follow his advice. Their excitement for the replacement parts was almost disturbing and yet, this time, he had to convince someone to get them. Someone who could care less for metallic additions, who most likely would, in a normal circumstance, not even bother with them.

There was moment in which Sherlock seemed to mull this over, emotions playing quickly over his face and wings as he contemplated the situation. John waited patiently. He wondered what sort of stigma would arise if he were to get the replacements, if that would encourage or impede the man on going back to Exemia.

"I suppose there's no other alternative…"

"Hm?"

"I'm curious as to what may come of this. Take me to whomever you want to tomorrow. If it means I can fly again, I would be more than grateful for the chance." He ended with a smile, and John nodded with one of his own, immediately standing. He could feel Sherlock's eyes following him round the room as he went to his messenger, typing out a short notice and sending it. "Who will you be taking me to?"

"An old friend, Mike Stamford." John watched as the old machine whined as it took in his message. "I recommend most of my patient's to him. If anyone can help you, I think he could."

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><p>1- The field guide, unfortunately, was not written by an Exemian, so a few facts are backwards, exaggerated, or completely wrong. Everything is generally a horrible stereotype. Plus it is mainly a book for visiting Exemia, and is one of the few that has a translation in the native language of the metal-workers.<p>

2- Gueir is the capital city of the metal-worker territory, and where John lives. (my apologies for it not being a clever play on London.)

3- Chzzin (pronounced she-zin) are a rare rabbit/stoat like creature found mainly in flying men territory. The hide, valued for its softness, is often used for expensive clothing, or decorative purposes.

4- Pure-bred Anhelans do indeed have odd numbers of wings. They have a set up just like Sherlock, though they have one tail wing located on their lower back. Due to his hybridization, Sherlock, and coincidentally Mycroft, lack this. Also, nebwua is neb-wah.

5- Senwei (san-way) is the term for an away parent, such as one that died or just merely left. Enwei (anne-way) is the parent that is still around and took care of the child. Both are gender neutral. This is a common thing in four of the Exemian groups, Anhelans being the chief participator.

6- This needs correcting. Dekins (day-ken) view emotions as a fuel, using it to move them forward, or to help in battle. They do think expressing feelings is a weakness, however, and will only do so around certain people.

Hopefully I didn't put in too much information. There's so much I wanted to put in, but I really didn't want to put too much. More will be added later on his background. Thank you for reading! Next chapter should be up in a week or so. Next one is also more about John's society.


	5. Chapter 4: Beyond the Glass

**Author's Note:** God, these keep getting longer. More really bad attempts at deductions again on my part and a smidgen of violence, so a warning there. Thank you for the reviews! Getting those cheers me up and gives me the drive to write these chapters! Anyways, enjoy the chapter.

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><p><strong>Chapter 4: Beyond the Glass<br>**

His appointment, a rather old man with a severe fear of most sicknesses, injuries, and anything outside of the city limits, took a little while longer than expected, seeing how the man decided to spend half an hour explaining the exact symptoms of his newest non-existent disease, all while ignoring the care John was trying to give for his very real broken arm. The man babbled on and on about aches in his toes, and a shocking feeling whenever he touched something metallic, even going so far as to stop him halfway out the door to ask about his consistent headaches every morning.

"Stop shuffling your feet on the carpet so much and cut back on the drinking every night." John said sternly, pulling away from the man to hurriedly make his way back to his flat where hopefully Sherlock was ready to go. He didn't have the highest of hopes, more expecting the man to still be lounging on the sofa where he had left him earlier, staring listlessly at the ceiling.

"Ah, there you are, John. A little later than expected." It came as a surprise to see Sherlock walking from the kitchen, bright-eyed and fully dressed without any prompting from John. He wore an outfit left by Mycroft, which seemed exceedingly foreign though his comfort inside it suggested it normal for his home. The top was an oddly dark material that covered his front in a very loose manner and draped openly over his back, allotting room for his wings and held together near the neck and lower back by mean of a golden clasp. The pants were black, and consisted of what was most likely a much tougher cloth and, unlike the top, were relatively tight.

Sherlock smirked at his attentions, snatching a dark grey something from the chair nearest him. "Help me into this." He insisted, holding out what was appeared to be a rather long woolen coat. John took it, feeling the course yet warm, woolen material. The back had been sliced, and re-sown in order to accommodate for Sherlock's extra appendages, with buttons added every few inches to allow more closure against the cold environment of Guier.

It took some time to wrestle the wings into place, especially seeing how he was forced into the gloves once again. This time, however, instead of struggling with a pained patient, he had fluttering, excitable limbs to coax into staying still, and unfortunately, their owner seemed unable to help.

"Do these things have a mind of their own, or are you deliberately being difficult?" John snapped after the third of time of failing to button down to the right side.

"I don't enjoy people touching them."

"Yeah, well, I'm wearing the gloves. I've done my part, just reign in these things so we can leave sometime today." There was a moment's pause, and the wings stilled, obeying whatever directive Sherlock had given them. "Thank you." He went to pull one side back over the right, and began buttoning again. The stillness was not destined to last it seemed, as when his hand came down to move the lowest one just a centimeter, they went into a frenzy again, nearly knocking him back. "Sherlock!" The man made an irritated noise, turning his face to look at John with a rather frustrated expression, which matched his perfectly.

"Be gentle, John. They're-"

"What? Ticklish?" There was a second of silence, before John started sniggering. "They are, aren't they?"

"Don't be stupid. Of course not." He answered back quietly, and John could almost hear the eye roll. Grinning to himself, he was about to continue on his task, when Mrs. Hudson decided to make an appearance.

"Hoo hoo, just came by to see how you two…" John jumped back almost guiltily, though after he did it, he realized had no real reason as to why he might have done so. Mrs. Hudson merely beamed at the sight of Sherlock. "Look at you. I knew that old thing would fit. Here, let me help get you into it, dear." John handed off the gloves, with a sigh of defeat.

"Better luck to you than I had." To both his surprise and amazement, Sherlock stilled for the landlady, cooperating to her movements and touches. She had him all buttoned up in a matter of minutes.

"There, don't you look dashing?" She cooed with another broad smile.

"A little snug, but, yes, very nice." He said once the front was all done up as well. Peering into the mirror, he seemed satisfied with himself; though it seemed strange that his wings did not do their usual little perk up whenever something contented him. Instead, they were tucked in tight along his back, and had been ever since Mrs. Hudson had entered the room, save for when she had moved them herself. "What do you think John?"

He was torn from whatever track his thoughts had been going on by Sherlock's question. Taking in the sight of him, with his usual smirk, hair a rather purposeful disarray, and clothes hugging him tightly, John had to admit, deep in some part of his mind that had been left un-touched since his youth, that the man before him was exceptionally attractive. Unconsciously licking his lips, he decidedly pulled his eyes back to meet Sherlock's, nodding in approval.

"Very nice. Now can we go?" Sherlock seemed taken aback by this, cocking his head ever so slightly to the side, yet he acquiesced. Soon, they were out the door, Mrs. Hudson calling a goodbye after them as John proceeded to try and hail a carriage. Beside him, Sherlock was drinking in the scenery, having never been physically outside of the flat, so far as he could tell. The clouds overhead were as thick as they were numerous, disabling all view of the suns, and casting a grey overtone to the exceptionally chilly day. Out on the streets, a few pedestrians moved about, clad in their every-day dress, silently eyeing Sherlock if they saw him.

His wings were still plastered to his back, which to John was a queer sight now that the man was properly dressed. He almost seemed to blend into the background yet standing out at the same time. John had little time to mull over the issue for a carriage came by then, drawn by a single steed, dark green and slightly unkempt. Sherlock took in the yusuei, who in turn stared at him. John was sure he had seen the beast from his windows, but up close must hold something different about. The doctor was indifferent about the yusuei, having been near them his whole life. They faded into the background like most of the city. He couldn't imagine what it must be like to be a foreigner to this place, whose own world was so…untamed.

"Interesting." Sherlock stated, before John ushered him into the holding part. "Are they all that uncared for?"

"Mostly, yes." The ride was mainly silent, save for the calling of the marketers in tune with the whispers of city life and the rhythmic pounding of hooves on stone. Outside, John watched in a somber manner as the people paced among the buildings and alleys. Women strutted by in dresses, ranging from cleanly elaborate to dirty and simple. Men came and went with them, mostly in their work clothes, stained with oil and such. It was so normal to John, he could get lost in the mundane of it all. Stopping the cab just a few steps from the quaint little shop, he ushered Sherlock quickly inside, hoping to avoid most onlookers.

The tailor's was well lit by various candles, mostly wax, and a few rather aesthetically pleasing pieces of art. The only issue John found with the décor was the tailor himself, for it wasn't the usual man. Instead, there stood a rather tall, grey-blue skinned, tusked, Orza, dressed impeccably. He gave a welcoming smile, or what seemed to be one at least, though it came off more as a grimace than anything kind. While John was taken aback by his appearance, Sherlock seemed unaffected, more interested in a painting depicting sea-farers(1) hunting on a sunny Southern Sea day.

"Wulcume. Yuh musht bah thu Eckshemion un nuud uff prupur dresh?" His voice was thick with a heavy accent and beyond rough, actually closer to sand being rubbed among broken glass and hardly understandable. His yellow tusks clacked quietly together in syncopation with his words as he gave Sherlock an once-over with watery golden eyes. He paid John little attention, moving forward to the other man.

Before the infestations of Shades, John had little contact with the people of Fel, yet, with the enormous amount of help received from the realm, he had had to treat several of their kind. He knew Orzas were like the metal-workers of Fel, being born without any of the powers most residents of the realm had, and were all exceptionally good at whatever craft they took up. Though their appearance was severely off putting for most people, they were incredibly well learned, and often had their own sort of charm. At least that's what John had been told. All of the Orzas he had seen were either dying, or already passed on in the last few weeks.

"Yes, obviously." Sherlock answered in the same business like tone the Orza had taken on, insinuating that he understood his garbled words more easily that John. "You worked in Exemia before here, yes?"

"Uff curse," They were standing rather close, the Orza actually being taller than Sherlock, though neither seemed threatened by the other. In fact, Sherlock seemed comfortable in the presence of such a foreign looking individual. "Moisht wuhngs err trookuh buht…" His slit-like nostrils flared as he nodded in some form of self-assurance. "Yuh shouldn't bah duffehcult." He ended with a rather animal like grunt.

Sherlock said something in his own language, and the Orza replied in kind, sounding considerable more smooth, before leading the Exemian to the back. "Ah'll uhnluh bah a mumont wehth yuhr frehnd. Tahck ah suut." He called to John, and they disappeared. John did as instructed, unknowingly, thoroughly confused by their conversation. He decided to put it out of his mind, casting a glance over to a rather interesting sculpture of Indrid, the merciful yet just high god. She stood, cloaked with her usual concealing robe, scales in one hand, and a para bird in the other. He watched as various motes of dust danced around her white form, and a pang of guilt hit him when he realized he had not made his usual visit to the shrines, in place of caring for Sherlock.

He mumbled a quick prayer of regret, in hopes for mercy from Indrid herself. He thought for a moment on the book Mycroft had given, wondering if he had seen anything on the Exemian's religion. They all seemed too self-assured to have one, though they had to have some form he expected. Asking gave off the presumption of being rude. He put it out of his mind for the moment. There was always a chance that Sherlock would just tell him. A moment later, the pair came striding into the front, neither gave off the impression that anything of value was gained from their time hidden from view.

John stood, striding over to where the Orza had stopped behind a rather elaborate desk. He and Sherlock were speaking rapidly in the odd language, even as the tailor wrote down figures quickly and gesturing wildly, his bald head shining in the low light. Sherlock glanced at John, and gave a sort of final word to the conversation before turning fully to his companion.

"Do you have the money on you now? Derz here prefers it first before beginning work."

"Fel truhdishehn." The Orza, Derz apparently, said with a leering twitch of the mouth that could have been a sympathetic smile.

"Right." John fished the money from his pocket, laying down what Derz had indicated on the sheet of paper. It was rather expensive, cutting through nearly half of what Mycroft had left him. With his own sparing expenses, John mourned the loss as sharp thick fingers whisked the paper and coin away. After placing it in the proper safe, the Orza gave them a few unintelligible words, which John assumed was goodbye by his tone, and he whisked Sherlock out of there, who beaming unnecessarily at John's flustered sort of confusion. It wouldn't be until later that Sherlock informed him that Derz had kindly told them the clothes would be delivered in a few day's time.

"He was a very interesting man."

"Hm?"

"Born in Exemia, near my home city, I bet you, and forced into Fel at some point, then coming here. Quite a journey for a tailor." John gave Sherlock a questioning glance from over the table. They were located at a small shop for a mid-meal, with Sherlock being a rather costly partner, what with his odd dietary need of more meat than most metal-workers(2). They had already shopped for the things necessary for the man's nest, which to John was what it always would be, much to Sherlock's chagrin. It had been sent ahead to the flat.

"Did he tell you that?"

"No, I heard it. Accent was too easy to understand to have been in Fel all his life around other Orzas. Couldn't have been raised around Farish or Elkins(3), either, because he would've emphasized his r's and l's more. Plus he could easily take my measurements, which suggests time around winged beings. He didn't complain about the number, only praised the lack of the tail wing, meaning Anhelans, seeing how Farish only have four, yet he pulled a few feathers, which means he's been working on the latter more than the former, so he's left Exemia for a while for Fel, before ending up here."

"How did you know what city in Exemia?"

"There's only two places where an Orza can find work in Exemia, and that's either where I grew up, which is a port city with plenty of Anhelans to practice his craft, or one in the middle of a large expanse of forest, home to considerably less wings to work with." He ended with a sip from his drink, staring blatantly out the window.

"That. Was amazing." John stated, leaning back in his seat, rather impressed. Sherlock hummed for a moment before what John had said sunk in. He peered at him curiously, a half-smile gracing his face. His wings, for the first time since that morning, perked up from their customary spot on his back, expanding slightly to the sides, conveying what John interpreted as surprise.

"You think so?"

"Yes, does everyone in Exemia do that?"

"Most of them. It's mostly an acquired talent, but certain breeding allows for it to come on quicker than others." He said, still appearing a little taken back from John's praise, flushing just ever so slightly from the surprise of it. "It's nothing special."

"What was your job back in Exemia?"

"A rather boring one. There, you do as your talents allow. I didn't have much to vouch for, or perhaps I had too much. Either way, they placed me wherever they needed help at the moment."

"You just did odd jobs?" He nodded, having gone back to staring out the window, watching the passerby's. Some looked back in, examining his wings, which had gone back to their default position, for a moment before continuing on their way. "Must've been somewhat entertaining."

"Not in a small village. Nothing ever happens besides a stray animal finding its way into the village limits." There was a touch of bitterness in his voice as he said this, fingers clutching agitatedly at a utensil.

"You said you lived in a city before. Why leave for something else?" Sherlock merely grinned for a moment, before pointing out the window at a small furry diguit on a leash, inquiring about the pet. John answered him, allowing the change of subject to slide without hesitation.

"Ah, John!" As they entered Stamford's office, a blast of warmth seemed to great them in comparison to the late afternoon chill. The man ushered them in, brightening up when he grasped John's hand in greeting. "Haven't seen you since last annual. Still living in that flat?"

"Can't seem to leave there quite yet." John answered warmly. They had been in higher education(4), studying medicine at the same time. That ended when John was drafted, and Stamford continued onto a career in prosthesis. They has met again when John had returned which had resulted in a relatively content acquaintanceship where they chatted every now and then, yet mostly just swapped patients whenever convenient. Nothing helped business like a fellow in the field.

"I know you can afford it, especially with the recent infestations of little bastards." He joked with a laugh, which John returned. To his side, Sherlock stood rather awkwardly, gazing about at the decorations that laden the walls. Stamford had chosen to adorn his office with examples of his work, meaning that various metallic parts where set up on plaques or in glass cases. A pair of hands was over his head, while feet found themselves on separate pedestals on either side of the door, and a rather interesting abdomen casing was under the clear protection between a heavily burdened bookshelf, and a lit fireplace. This seemed to capture most of Sherlock's attention, who couldn't have been more uncomfortable here surrounded by these rather odd objects. To John, it was all background.

"I don't need anything bigger than what I have now. How are you?"

"Good. Good, oh…" He seemed to have finally notice Sherlock, who was doing his best to blend into the scenery. Under Stamford's scrutiny, his wings seemed to pull in tighter to his sides, as if hiding his injuries. "By Oruik, you are something." Sherlock scowled at this, choosing a rather stony silence instead of replying.

"This is Sherlock." John introduced, hoping the man would relax. Stamford held out his own prosthetic hand to the Exemian, smile faltering when Sherlock stared at it for a moment, yet he beamed when the man took it.

"Mike Stamford. Can't say I've ever had a case like you." Sherlock gave a slow nod in faux interest as he abruptly pulled his hand back, continuing his stony silence.

"Have you ever made anything like wings?" John inquired, watching Stamford circle Sherlock, trying to get a look at his appendages.

"Yeah, a few times. You'd be surprised how often those flying men lose theirs, but I guess it's the nazzers(5) they got up in those mountains. Even scarier when they can fly." Sherlock stepped away when Stamford got too close, clearly disliking this sort of attention. "These injured ones still healing?" He asked the silent man.

"Obviously." Sherlock nearly hissed, flinching back when Stamford tried to touch one of his wings.

"Can you make the prosthetics?" Stamford looked to John for a long moment, before glancing back to Sherlock, who was pointedly staring at the door.

"Yeah-"

"And I'll be able to fly?" Sherlock interjected, now watching Stamford with an intensity that made the man take a step back.

"Well that's a little harder, isn't it? The flying men don't fly, exactly. They glide, but if you want to actually take off the ground instead of fall slowly..."

"I will offer as much assistance as possible, so long as it means I can fly again." Sherlock added, now determined. It was quite a sight, nearly scary to see the man with that glint in his eye.

"I'm always one for a challenge." Stamford answered, smiling awkwardly as Sherlock continued to stare him down. "We'll have to get measurements and I'll need to know everything you can tell me about your wings here. The materials I would need aren't easy to find. It won't be cheap..." He adds, fading off as he takes to looking at John concernedly.

"Not a problem. I have a very interested party who'll give up any sum of money to keep me in working condition." Stamford gaped at his choice words, and John was about to explain when Sherlock continued. "Unfortunately the measuring and explaining will have to wait. Come on John, don't want to be late for our next appointment!" He was already out the door before either of them could blink.

"Well, I'd better, uh..."

"I'll wire you a better time, yeah?" John nodded, before saying a hurried farewell, following his patient outside. Sherlock was standing quietly next to the door, hands placed firmly inside his coat's pockets.

"What in the afterworld was all of that?"

"You lot may enjoy mechanical body parts for ambiance, but unfortunately I do not." He replied through thinned lips, looking positively agitated by the whole affair.

"Why...are you squeamish?" Sherlock awarded him an exacerbated expression and a roll of the eyes.

"Violence and dismemberment do not bother me on such a level, but displaying crafted metallic parts as an art form is not something I particularly relish." He refused to meet John's eye, choosing instead for a small golden para bird perched on a rooftop. John merely hums in defeat, patting him on the shoulder before leading him to the city's square. He needed a bit a walk before heading back home, and a quiet jaunt around the looping streets was just what he craved, yet, the vision died at the toll of a bell.

"What is happening here?" Sherlock asked, observing as everything around them seemed to pause. The pedestrians were all looking in the same direction as the rather ominous bell sounded. John had heard it before, dozens of time, the ringing still an echoed vigil on some weaker moments in the early mornings after hazy dreams. He remember being a child, ushered through the streets when it sounded, pushed to the buildings where masses would least congregate, his mother and father standing watch, and whispering prayers into the open air while he and his sister took in the proceedings with a surreal and horrified interest.

There was shouting in the square, and people began to move frightfully out of the way as a carriage came into view, pulled by four traditional red yusuei, clad in the deep blue clothing of the courts. The vehicle, white as bone was old, wood chipping from its age and purposeful lack of care. The driver, also swathed in the dark azure with his face covered in a cloth mask, slowed the steeds down, parking near the platform that was steadily being raised into place from its underground holdings. Two men, dressed as the driver, came from the carriage, each holding onto the arm of another masked individual, though his hood and attire were as purely white as the carriage may have been in John's youth. It brought back more memories, being snatched away in the excitement, separated from his parents and sister for a brief moment.

Leading him through the parted crowd, John and Sherlock watched as the other observers nearest the white clad man hissed and spit upon him, screeching out profanities as he and his guards took him to the gleaming death machine perched so lovingly atop the wooded lift. Its structure was simple, yet unnerving. The individual was lain face-up on a stone bed, neck directly under an impossibly sharp silver blade. It had been the subject of many nightmares for John in his youth, strapped there as the blade descended upon him. The criminal, as he surely was, found himself place near the machine, and a judge stepped forth, papers in hand to read out his crime.

"Terrance Smith," he began, voice booming out over the crowd, carried by the breeze which rippled his grey robes. One of the blue guards ripped the hood from the man's head, revealing a younger person with notwithstanding features and silent tears falling down his face into his unkempt beard. "For the act of intimate relations with one of one's own sex, by the law of the metal-workers, the court of Gueir, and the virtue of the gods, you are hereby sentenced to the maximum punishment of death by be-heading." The accused, if they had been close enough to hear it, sobbed openly, looking towards the overcast skies as if in some belief something might help him. Beside John, Sherlock was wide-eyed; wings reigned in, yet face a text of clear horror. In John's mind's eye, he could see the time he had been grasped away from his family, where he had ended up so close to the platform, the woman being accused caught sight of him. She stared at him, openly crying and begging as if he could offer some help, even as they lay her on the death machine's bed.

The guards nearest the accused grabbed him roughly, forcing him into the monstrosity. The crowd cheered as the judge came over, grasping the pulley to the contraption. "May the shame of this moment cleanse you before the gods." He pulled the rope, and John had to glance elsewhere as the blade fell, the resonating sound of it slicing through flesh and subsequently hitting the smooth stained stone underneath sending unpleasant shivers through him. A quick look to Sherlock revealed a rage John had not seen before, for his pupils were narrowed, mouth a thin line, and wings extended unconsciously backwards.

The crowd yelled out its approval once again as the judge gave his final words, yet John didn't care to stick around for those too, and he grasped Sherlock's wrist, pulling him easily from the sight. An execution never failed to unnerve John.

"How often does this happen?" He asked in a low dangerously calm voice when they were a few block from the area.

"About twice a month." John admitted reluctantly, watching the buildings around them for no real reason other than their familiarity and age oddly comforted him.

"All for what? The person had committed no crime."

"Here, he did." John stated as smoothly as he could, nearly sighing in frustration as Sherlock stopped to brood in a closed shop window, expression dark. All he wanted was to be in his flat, as far away from that machine as possible. John came to stand next to his companion, peering in for good measure, seeing nothing more than a dark bakery. "Look, I know in Exemia, it's all okay, but here… If you get caught with someone your same gender, it's against the law. If that's normal…"

"Of course it's normal." Sherlock snapped, clearly upset in his own way by the event he had just observed.

"Not here. You get knotted(6), and have a few children. Anything else is punishable by be-heading. I don't know about you, but I rather like my head."

"What's the point of a head, if you cannot use it for what you want?" He grumbled darkly. John focused on their reflection, frowning at the sight of them standing together: Sherlock, the eccentric tall man with wings jutting out of his back and John, average as the metal-worker could get. It seemed strange, the pair of them, standing here on a cloudy five-day, almost arm to arm. Some part of him enjoyed the sight of this abnormality in his existence, while the other, bred from a life in Trias, rejected it. When he met Sherlock's searching gaze in the reflection, something in his heart, still pounding from the execution, tugged gently. For a moment, he could see himself slipping a hand into Sherlock's, twining there fingers together, whether in comfort or in some form of need to feel their long presence in between his own. The shock of the thought beat out whatever sentiment may have stolen him over and he turned abruptly, beginning to hurry down the sidewalk, leaving the image and his patient at the bakery window.

"Come on, it's getting late." He called back, moving swiftly to call a carriage.

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><p>1- Sea-Farers are the third class of people in Trias. (They will appear later, in detail.)<p>

2- Due to most of their population is within large cities, there is little room to raise animals for slaughter, and fewer people willing to live outside the cities to raise them. Metal-workers are used to a low protein, nearly vegetarian diet. Exemians, however, have few large cities, many farms, and are adapted to a much more balanced diet, making Sherlock an expensive date in Trias.

3- Farish and Elkins are other types of people in Fel, which is home to about a dozen various peoples.

4- Metal-workers are not the most eloquent and use very simple terms for everyday things. Special words are only used for people, titles, places, animals, or anything that particularly needs it. Thus, lunch would be mid-meal, college is higher education, and any day of the week is identified by the chronological order it comes in i.e. the fifth day in a week is five-day.

5- Nazzers are the common term for a very dangerous type of predator found only in Trias. They have a nasty habit of evolving to fit in with any environment, making them versatile and deadly. The one's Stamford is referring to are often called Flitting Nazzers, mainly found flying about in mountainous regions. Nazzers are the main historical reason metal-workers adapted to living in large cities, where the predators would not go hunting for them, unlike Shades, who will hunt you no matter where you go.

6- Knotted=their equivalent to marriage. A monogamous arrangement used mainly for the production and raising of offspring. Fun fact: Metal-worker government is, unlike the Catholic church and England in the past, actually very good at catching people who break their religious laws, making the threat of execution a real and likely possibility for anyone who does not adhere to the socially accepted ways.

Thank you for reading. All reviews are wonderful, of course. Next chapter up in a week, hopefully. (I just received Skyrim as a late present, so don't have too high of hopes for punctuality.)


	6. Chapter 5: Of Notes

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the lateness, but I blame sickness and college starting again. **IMPORTANT NOTE-** In reference to a question asked in the reviews about people leaving Trias in search of more hospitable societies, the issue lies in realm travel. Due to all permanent portals, a.k.a. rifts, being government controlled, getting out of Trias if it is your home realm is an affair that takes 10-15 years _if they believe you are legally eligible to do so_. If not, your not leaving unless you use less conventional methods, but those are either A) next to impossible, B) extremely expensive, or C) are left to very slim chance. Sherlock would've been lucky due to running into Shades who create rips, non-permanent portals (lasting close to 24 hours), and getting away fast enough to access these. _Most people don't get away so fast_.  
>Anyways, enjoy the chapter!<p>

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><p><strong>Chapter 5: Of Notes and Strange Happenstance<strong>

The sound of a gunshot resounded through the flat, waking John abruptly from a rather deep slumber. Groaning in near physical pain, he wiped a hand over his face, taking a glance outside the window just as another bang reverberated through the rooms.

"At least the suns' up." He said under his breath, grabbing a robe and finding his way into the sitting room where he found his guest, wide-awake for what could've been hours, with John's old military revolver in his hand pointed directly at a rather hideous vase once owned by his mother that John just hadn't felt the need to rid himself of. It didn't take a genius to realize what the winged man's next move was. "Wait-!"

There was another crack, punctuated by a shattered of cheap porcelain all over the small table upon which it was perched. The projectile then lodged itself directly into the wall behind the now beyond repair mediocre piece of pottery, alongside two other such holes, marking Sherlock's progress thus far with the weapon. John might've praised him on actually hitting the vase if they were in more appropriate location for such device to be practiced with and not in the flat.

"What in Oruik's name are you doing?" John shouted, coming over to wrestle the object from Sherlock, who gave it over remarkably easy. It had been two weeks since the man had fallen through his window, and he had been in a steady decline into the madness Mycroft has hinted towards.

"I don't know any Oruik." Sherlock snapped, going over to John's chair, surprisingly, and collapsing upon in a dramatic display, his wings and arms coming to wrap around his knees which were drawn to his chest. The bandages had been thus far removed from two of them, leaving only the stump still needing regular cleaning. John had been surprised by the quick pace of healing, even still after Sherlock had scoffed and complained at the subdued progress. "Your 'gods' have no sway in my actions. Please stop assuming their nonexistence does." He was in some kind of mood this morning, John observed as the man rested his chin upon his knees.

"Fine. That still doesn't explain why you were deliberately shooting at my wall! How did you even find this anyway?"

"Second drawer in your desk. Not exactly a master lock. It only took me a moment to pick." John pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration, fighting back the urge to shout angrily at the man before him, well, shout at him more.

"Great, but why shoot in the flat?"

"Might as well. I have nothing else to do."

"You were just learning how to write metal-speak yesterday!"

"Yes, and I've already mastered that to an acceptable point." John let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Of course you have."

This had only been the beginning. In the following weeks, Sherlock had taken apart all of John's mechanical devices, breaking a good fourth of them, a half of which were beyond conceivable repair. His natural sleeping cycle seemed to have evened out, meaning the man was averaging four to five hours a day, where he would take short naps in order to fuel his minimal sleep requirements. This led to loud violin concertos in the middle of the night and odd experiments on John's foodstuff. He wandered into the kitchen one morning only to find several pieces of fruit, all different colors, ranging from normal to downright disturbing. When questioned about the the rather macabre array of vegetation, Sherlock had stated innocently he was observing different effects caused by several of John's medicines, minerals, and chemicals he kept stored around the flat.

"On fruit?"

"Testing them on myself would be counter-productive, seeing how my immune and digestive system(1) differs from the usual Trias human, and might hinder my healing. If I did not have to worry about my wings, they would've been applied directly to me, saving you a few berries." John gave up on that matter, letting it rest for the moment. Sherlock continued to happily test the different chemicals and herbs however, no matter how much John protested, resulting in the flat needing several smoke clearings, a few permanent stains, and one frightening yet hilariously melted pot that Sherlock had not allowed John to throw out. It now stood proudly upon the kitchen counter, despite John's best efforts to put it in Sherlock's room.

It was three weeks into their tentative relationship that Sherlock began disappearing altogether, for hours on end. John had come home early one afternoon to find the winged man completely missing. He had checked everywhere, even going so far as to asking Mrs. Hudson about the misplaced Sherlock. Two hours later, however, he had come sauntering in, seemingly all too pleased with himself, feathers puffed up and a pink flush in his cheek from the bitter wind of the day.

When John had questioned him about the sudden want to leave the flat, the man had merely shrugged, seemingly affronted by John's anxiety by his little outing. "I was merely familiarizing myself with the city. As much as I loathe leaving here for the barbarity of the metal-worker's domain, I do need to know my way around this mindless maze." Sherlock had stated simply, making his way over to the icebox. John had to agree with that, coming down from the blatant worry that had been fogging up his mind earlier.

"At least leave some form of note so I don't think you've been stolen and murdered by some psychopath." John pleaded, remembering the paper that morning. Another man, a journalist this time, had been found dead that morning. The papers claimed that the two deaths were being treated as murders. It was odd that the maniac who was responsible hadn't been caught yet, seeing how the bluecoat's(2) track record was something to be admired. No one escaped them, and this was the first serial killer in centuries to have actually succeed in earning that title.

Sherlock agreed to his demand, and began leaving short notes on scraps of paper whenever he left un-accompanied. At first, they went simplistically:

_John,_

_Left around mid-morning. Be back before mid-meal._

_Sherlock_

But as the days went by, they become more detailed and often amusing, especially when John came home from the ward or his appointments:

_John,_

_Decided to watch the dock workers. The machinery is fascinating in an almost disturbing manner. Do all ships run off of the reddish fuel I've seen them shoveling into them? All the ones back in Exemia are powered by the workers themselves. Birds seem to enjoy me, which is only mildly irritating. Mostly it's the golden ones. Are they always so friendly? Be back before nightfall, though you could join if you felt so inclined._

_Sherlock_

They brought a smile to John's face as he read them, Sherlock's bored drawl echoing through the words. He stowed them away in a drawer where he didn't have the desire to throw them away. Most of the letters detailed his plans for the day, which were generally observing the citizens of Guier, asking rather innocent questions and always ending with a rather carefully worded request for John to join him on his escapades. He never met up with the man, though he would write notes back if Sherlock didn't come back before he retired for the evening or left for the day:

_Sherlock,_

_Can't join you. I have to work on a write-up for a rather odd bout of the flu that's spreading around the ward. No, the para birds generally avoid humans. Do those people you watch ever notice you? It must scare some of them seeing a tall strange winged man staring at them from across the street. Please be mindful of who you talk to._

_John_

_John,_

_I keep myself to roofs when I do this. Children look at me, though the parents don't ever notice. It seems all young person's act the same in our realms. I can't imagine growing up in this stifling city. It's at least three times the size of my childhood home. At the marketplace today. The birds follow me around everywhere now, so I assume that means they must find some sort of kinship in me. They perch near me on the roofs. I took some bread to feed them, hope you don't mind. The birds and children act a like. Won't be back until late. Just look up and you might see me, if you wanted to find me.  
><em>

_Sherlock_

They all went along those lines, and yet they never discussed them outside of the notes. It was almost as if some sort of secret they could share and enjoy, even beyond what went between them in the flat. When they were alone together, they both held back from whatever connection they may have made. It frustrated John for he wanted to, but didn't allow himself to understand the way Sherlock watched him from across the sitting room, or the why his stomach fluttered whenever their eyes met. He ignored the twang of arousal that hit him whenever Sherlock moved about the flat in little clothing, or how the man shuffled near him in public, keeping their sides close even on an empty sidewalk, their shoulders brushing and Sherlock's wings lightly touching his back.

It was an odd dangerous sort of dance they did as the days faded into weeks, subsequently turning into months. John refused to acknowledge any other possibilities than their borderline symbiotic friendship. Sherlock was steadily growing into the extraordinary in midst of all the mundane that John hadn't realized he craved until the Exemian had fallen through his window. Coming home to the random experiments, broken machines, and feathers lodged in his furniture, brightened up his mood considerably every evening. He slowly began to forget what life had been like without Sherlock living with him in this flat.

The moments spent in Stamford's office were tense at best. Sherlock had no love for the prosthetics 'dangling about', as he put it, and Stamford had an endless amount of curiosity for Sherlock's wings. Thankfully, the latter was more than helpful, though it tended to add the winged man's discomfort. John would chuckle silently as they seemed to circle each other, Stamford trying his hardest to actually study the wings from a distant less than two feet and Sherlock wholeheartedly not allowing such an action to take place.

"He's too touchy." Sherlock complained one evening, the messenger machine taken apart before him on the sitting room table as he studied its design for what must've been the third time. John was past trying to stop him at this point, knowing the man could actually put it back together in some semblance of normal.

"He's a man of science. It's not often something like you comes walking through his door." John halfheartedly defended, eyes riveted to the newspaper, though nothing in Guier ever really changed. Taxes fluctuating, Nazzers being spotted close to the city limits, and some poor bastard intended for the rope or the 'machine' was so perfect in their frequency, John might've had a heart attack if he didn't see one of the three in the paper every other day.

"It's a matter of respect and personal space. You don't go around patting each other on the groin just out of 'scientific curiosity'." John had no real response to that, snickering behind his paper as they fell into a comfortable silence, muddied only by the flipping of a page or the chink of metal accompanied by a fascinated sigh. These evenings when neither had nothing to do save for spend the hours sitting in the same room, even if silently, were John's favorites. It was calm and companionable. They passed in a lethargic sense, and generally ended with John going to bed with the sound of Sherlock's violin following him.

Rain was inevitable in Guier, being a port side city(3) and the fact that the rain seemed to have no better place to be on a perfectly fine three-day when John had decided to venture out to the shrines for the first time in weeks. Sherlock had already left by the time John had awoken that morning, his note informing John he'd be out near the factory district, where the machines were crafted. This gave the perfect opportunity to head out without the man scoffing at him with disdain.

Few people wandered the Temple that morning, choosing instead to wait until a less miserable day for worship. John preferred this, not usually being keen on people watching him from the corner of their eyes, judging his habits in parallel to their own. The nosiness of a stranger could make or break a person's reputation, even at the sacred grounds. Bluecoats enjoyed milling about there, ready for anyone to whisper a tidbit in their ear for their next arrest. Thankfully, no officials seemed to bother with the Temple today, leaving John and the few other citizens to their rituals in peace.

The Temple was more of a series of four halls interconnecting into a square, surrounding a courtyard comprised of grass, bushes, and flowers. At each of the four corners stood a single shrine dedicated to one of the five gods, yet the center of the field lay a smaller temple all its own that housed the shrine for Oruik, the god of the metal-workers. John made his way for the central shrine. He had no real need to visit the gods, yet customs and laws mandated he did at least once a week and his negligence was soon to provoke officials into doling out fines.

"Odd, seeing you here." The familiar deep voice startled John as he crossed the grass, causing him to turn on his heel and he nearly came face-to-face with Sherlock himself. The rain fell lightly, and in the grey light of the cloudy morning, the man had never appeared so out of place. He stood, hands in his pockets, with his wings making for a cover over his head, gazing with interest at John. Water ran lightly off his gleaming feathers, making them glisten in a fantastic sort of way that not only John seemed to notice. The few passing patrons gave Sherlock suspicion glances before continuing with their tasks.

"I thought you'd be downtown." John said, slightly shocked at his companion's sudden appearance. Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes.

"I was yet they wouldn't let me in the factories. I milled around the city limits, but a bluecoat sent me away for straying too close to the outskirts."

"So you came here for…what?" He was slightly miffed at the man for being here. He had picked a time specifically so that he could be as far away from his opinions as possible.

"What better way to understand a group of people than by observing their religious practices. I expected you to be here. I knew you hadn't visited these shrines since I arrived."

"So you deliberately led me on so I would go to them just so you could show up and watch me?" John pursed his lips, anger coursing through him. He began to walk away, the chill in the rain starting to annoy him. Sherlock grabbed him by the arm, turning him round to face him, his wings extending slightly to cover John too. "I'm not going to stick around so you can mock me."

"John, please." He caught his eye, fingers trailing to grasp his wrist. "I want to learn, but you're the only one who can teach me." His expression seemed sincere, and John huffed in defeat after a moment before looking away, still not satisfied with this change in plan.

"Alright. Fine. But," he prodded a finger sharply into Sherlock's chest. "You are going to behave like a respectable person." Sherlock nodded, his fingers tightening slightly as John went to pull away, yet eventually letting him loose.

John began the quick jaunt towards Oruik's shrine, Sherlock following close behind so his wings provided some cover from the rain. Stepping under the pavilion and allowing the harsh smell of iron and oils to break over his nose, John shifted smoothly from citizen to worshiper, back straightening and eyes lowered in reverence, the routine so set from the aroma and visual cues that it took little mental effort to reach that stage. There, in the middle of the candle lit shrine was the statue of Oruik, built the size of a tall metal-worker in the dense bronze art-iron. A thick muscled figure, with a rugged face covered in a dense beard, he held a large silver hammer in the midst of being brought down over an anvil. His garb was that of an olden blacksmith, reminiscent of the times before the Great Divide, depicted as rough cut leather that fit loosely over the body. The feet were molded to the pavilion floor, as though Oruik himself had taken form from the very earth beneath him.

John approached the sculpture humbly, very aware of Sherlock's eyes on the back of his head, though he paid him little mind. He pulled out a small amount of money, depositing it at the small bowl at the feet of Oruik and kneeling. Hands placed on his lower thigh, he murmured the few words of prayer, his mouth ushering the words that his mind long stopped having to provide. Quietly, he stood, touching his forehead briefly in reverence, before turning back to a contemplative Sherlock.

"This is Oruik." He stated, stepping forward to stand beside John while taking in the statue.

"Yes."

"What do you come to him for?" It was a simple question, one that John could easily and comfortably answer.

"He's the god of metal. He's supposed to be the first one to discover how to shape the ore that was found eons ago. He's the one who led the metal-workers in the Divide, and helped build Guier. You come to him when you don't have the strength to continue on, or when you need guidance." John explained, looking into Oruik's steel gaze. "He's supposed to offer structure."

"The Divide... That was in a few of your texts, mostly in passing. That was when the three tribes split apart, yes?" John nodded, pleasing Sherlock's ever present need to be correct. "Interesting. Can we see the other's?" He appeared too excited for John to say no, so they left Oruik behind. Crossing the courtyard again, John took them to the halls. They walked silently on the way to the next god, arms brushing with every other step.

Coming to the end of the walk, they came upon the next statue, this one in a golden art-iron and in the form of a woman, depicted laying on her back and naked save for a cloth draped over her lower abdomen, groin, and upper thighs. Her soft features and alluring face gave the viewer a come hither look, her left hand outstretched and beckoning the worshiper while the right arm covered her breasts.

"Haldan, goddess of love and intimacy." John informed Sherlock as soon as they made it to her. Sherlock gave her an once-over before scoffing at the statue.

"I know several woman in Exemia would have a glorious time ruining this piece."

"Sherlock…" John warned.

"Of course, lonely people must pray to her for companionship. I can only imagine the type to stop before this one." He scoffed, and John felt his face heat up slightly, remembering the last time he had visited Haldan was not three days before Sherlock had tumbled into his sitting room. "Who's next?"

Next was John's personal favorite. The god was built not out of metal, but made of a smooth light-brown hard stone, and fantastically realistic. Ruiesh sat upon a large metal slab, his slim-tentacle appendages spilling over the floor, curling and unfurling as though they were actually moving. His upper torso was like any over human's, smooth and un-clothed. His hands lay in his 'lap', holding a mortar and pestle as he crushed herbs, though his boyish face peered up at the worshipper, a coy smile adorning his lips as though he would break into a laugh.

"A sea-farer." Sherlock said in some surprise, moving closer to the statue.

"Yes. Ruiesh, god of healing and knowledge. Supposedly the one who led the others into the ocean to the Middle Islands."

"Your god then?" He questioned offhandedly. "Being a doctor and all, he must play some sort of role in your religious experience, or do you allow your patients to come to pray before him?" John rolled his eyes.

"It works both ways sometimes."

Next was Indrid, whom Sherlock found rather interesting. "Why is she holding one of those birds?" He scrutinized the small para bird, wings folding a little around himself as he glared at it.

"The para birds are to symbolize humanity, I think. They're not found anywhere other than the cities. Plus, it's a little weird for her to hold small people in her hand."

"I wouldn't put it past the sculptors." They moved on shortly after.

"Nells, god of strength, war, and the sky. Protection." The marble statue had always intimidated John, the flying god standing so proud with a serrated sword outstretched towards the worshipers. He was tall, taller than the other gods, clad in a robe, four wings haloing his body. His handsome clean-shaven face was set in a permanent expression of disapproval as he looked beyond to the courtyard, unburdened hand gesturing towards the temple's ceiling. "You go to him in time of unrest in life, when you don't feel safe." John glanced to Sherlock, who was gazing upon the statue with some form of approval, his own feathered limbs twitching in curiosity.

"Four wings, to set him apart from the other flying men." The man murmured to himself. "Is he always depicted scowling, or is that just a form of metal-worker caricature?" John laughed at this, shaking his head.

"Usually, he looks angrier." Sherlock stepped forward, lightly touching the end of Nells sword. "Even when he's painted in the company of Haldan."

"I'd be rather miffed if I had to be forever set in place with her." He hummed to himself, moving ever closer to the god, fingers trailing lightly along toothed edge of the weapon. They made a pair, Nells and Sherlock. "I rather like him."

"He's said to be the first winged flying man, leading them to the mountains when the Divide happened(4)." Sherlock nodded to this, stepping away from the marble. "You look a little like him." John commented with a teasing smile after a short moment. Sherlock scoffed, glaring back him, clearly not appreciating the comment. "Oh, now you two are definitely cut from the same stone(5)." Glancing outside, he noted the amount of time they had managed to consume with a jolt. "We should get going. It's getting late." Sherlock agreed, and it wasn't long till they were out of the temple, headed home. The streets were clear for the rainy afternoon, which was both a blessing, for Sherlock seemed it an appropriate time crowd next to him as they walked, yet a curse for no carriages were available for them to hail. It mattered not though, for Sherlock's wings provided enough cover overhead.

"Do you always do that when it rains? Must be a rather silly sight in Exemia with all the Anhelans covering their heads with their feathers." John smiled at the thought, picturing it in his head.

"The oil on my feathers repels water naturally. It'd be a shame to waste a perfectly good use for them." He caught John's smirk, before grinning slightly himself. "And yes, it does look rather odd."

"It's nice though, not having to hold my own 'cover." John commented, shuffling minutely closer. There was no reply, and their slow gate continued in quiet peace. Of course, not all peaceful things were to last.

A woman came careening between them, shoving John out into the street onto his side, his head hitting the cobblestone as she streaked past them. It happened so suddenly, John didn't have time to right himself from the flashing behind his eyes and the pain in his skull before three bluecoats, riding black yusuei galloped around him, chasing after her, followed by a large carriage, heading straight for him. His mind, fogged with dizziness and agony, seized as the vehicle gained on his prone figure, before two hands grasped him, hauling him out of harm's way and into the arms of Sherlock. Panting, John watched as the carriage charged by, the rickety wheels and clacking of hooves echoing loudly in his ear.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock said in a worried tone, one arm firmly holding John to him, while the other hand tilting his chin side to side as the man examined his head. Pain bloomed in his neck and the right side of his skull as Sherlock moved him.

"Yeah…" John hissed as Sherlock's fingers gently touched the growing lump on the side of his head. "By Oruik's beard, what was that?"

"Thief, judging by the sack she held tightly to her chest. Most likely stole some form of money or valuable jewel, if the amount of bluecoats is anything to go by." He murmured, though John didn't catch most of it, his head and neck beginning to throb. They stood there, as John blinked the lights behind his eyes, trying to gain focus back through the sharp pain. Sherlock held him close, the hand on his lower back stroking in soothing circles as his wings, injured or otherwise enfolded around them.

As the initial shock began to ebb, John noticed the warmth that Sherlock seemed to exude from his being. Even in the cold wetness of the weather and the chill from the breezy evening, the man was fantastically comforting. In a moment of weakness, John found himself pressing closer, head still pounding and heart still racing. With his arms pressed into the man's chest, he let his cheek rest against Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock tightened his hold on John, sighing at the contact.

The embrace lasted only as long as it took John to remember where they were standing and he pulled away a little too quickly, head spinning at the movement. Sherlock seemed reluctant to let go, crowding close again when John let out a groan of pain, clutching his head for emphasis.

"I'm fine, we just need..." His ears began to ring as his tongue slurred over the letters, and he grunted as he almost doubled over, but Sherlock was near for him to balance on. With a hand on the taller man's shoulder and an arm around his waist, he was guided to a nearby bench, which he gratefully sat down on. "I think... I can't..."

"You... stay here...-etch a carriage." Sherlock murmured, his words worming in through the haze and noise in John's mind. He nodded, bringing another wave of sharp pressure while black edges began to dark his vision. He heard rather than saw Sherlock leave, though he tried to call him back, but nothing made much sense at the moment. The last thing he remembered was the numbing rain hitting him and the whistle of a self-propelling carriage.

* * *

><p>1- Seeing how he's from a different evolutionary line than John, Sherlock would have to be mindful of what medicines he would ingest. He was thus far lucky with the painkillers and salves John has been using for his wings, but that is due to the plant in which they extracted from.<p>

2- Bluecoats are the general term for all police-like persons in Trias for their, as you guessed it, signature blue outfits. As to why they have a good track record, this is because of the fact the government keeps a very close eye on its citizens, which the bluecoats have access too, and the fact that many metal-workers make for very bad criminals.

3- Just to give terms of geography, Trias is a planet with two large land masses that wrap around the globe, split into five continents, three of which are in the South, while two are in the North with a very large body of water in between. Gueir lies on the Northern land mass on the very tip of a peninsula.

4- Trias religion is based solely off of the legend of the Divide, and is shared between the three peoples. Oruik (Ore-rook) and Ruiesh(Rue-ish) are static in their appearance. Nells is female in the sea-farers depictions, and Haldan is female only in the metal-workers. Indrid and Haldan's species changes depending on which people you are with. An interesting factoid: Ruiesh actually has no gender, since sea-farers are all (sexually) hermaphrodites. Metal-workers usually refer to Ruiesh as a 'he' because he has the chest of a man, and the sea-farer's sexual ambiguity is not a common known fact.

5- Being a society centered around mining and ores, their favorite metaphors are plays on rocks and metals. 'Cut from the same stone' or any variation is used to say that either two or more persons look or act alike.

Most of the notes down here aren't strictly necessary but I provide them to bring the reader more knowledge of the world. Thank you for reading, and please review!


	7. Chapter 6: Trivial Matters

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the lateness again. Next chapter should be on time, I hope. Thus, apologies and free invisible shi-tzus. Also, just because it won't really be discussed in depth in the story, Sherlock and John are younger than they would be in the actual show. Sherlock being around 30 years, and John being 32. Anyways, thank you for the reviews and enjoy the chapter!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6: Trivial Matters<br>**

The next moment John could remember was slowly fighting the heavy blanket of sleep that seemed determined to keep him pinned to the bed. It took at least ten minutes to find his way through the layers, only to open his eyes to an early morning sunsrise and a sore head. Grunting stiffly, he managed to maneuver his way out of the cocoon of blankets and sheets, noting that he was still in his clothes from the night before. With a heavy sigh, he changed and wandered downstairs, seeking out Sherlock.

The man was curled up in his chair, violin in his hands as he mindlessly, or so John thought, plucked at the strings. "Morning." He said in an absentminded tone.

"What happened last night?" It was mostly a blur in his own head, no matter how hard be concentrated on it.

"Oh," Sherlock began, shrugging. "Criminal threw you into the street and you hit your head rather hard. Getting you back was a chore. The carriage driver wouldn't stop complaining about you possibly vomiting on the seats."

"You poor thing." John grumbled, making his way to the kitchen for some much needed morning tea. "Glad to see your getting on alright. My concussion's fine, by the way." A small affectionate smile came upon his face when he saw the man pout from his words. He cancelled his appointments for the next few days, contentedly lounging around the flat as Sherlock bustled to and fro. There were moments when he could've swore by Indrid that Sherlock had given him a worrying glance when he would stumbled from dizziness, though neither were going to address it.

Six months, and everything seemed to have gone into a sort of routine that John was more than happy to accept. Dull days with patients were livened considerably with Sherlock whirl winding his way round the flat, complaining loudly of nothing to do and finding intriguing uses for chemical he picked up on the money Mycroft would leave during his and John's little meetings. Once, he even brought back the head of texly(1), which stayed contently in the icebox for nearly a month, much to John's protestation. Eventually, he adjusted, and merely place edible things as far away from the decomposing cattle as he could.

"I can't imagine what it's like living with him." Mycroft had commented one time, seated almost too comfortably in the sitting room.

"Oh, I'm never bored." John assured, casting a nervous glance to Sherlock who was in turn watching his brother with a certain amount of dislike. The doctor almost wanted to push one of the two out. He had both heard and read in that ridiculous guide about what underlay the exterior of Exemians. John had seen Sherlock, in one of his more silent moments when he stared seemingly blankly at the wall, his palm flat on the arm of whatever seat he may have been in. His fingers had been twiddling, a small luminescent pale yellow spark moving around his skin, dancing with his movements. There had always been rumors the power that the Exemians held, the energy that supposedly runs through them.

John could feel it now, as the two brothers merely sat in the same room, thrumming in the air, making it thick. Each breath felt almost labored and John almost feared that if he were to touch anything, he may become shocked.

"If your only intention is to sit here and mock me, Mycroft, may I suggest you leave." Sherlock snapped, face a mask and wings reigned in. Mycroft gave a simpering smile, peering at the pointed end of his umbrella.

"It is not your home, Sherlock. I am here to discuss matters with John. If you can't behave, I would strongly ask for you to leave." A sour expression briefly flitted over Sherlock's face, his hand lighting minutely for a minute to John's amazement though Mycroft tutted. "I can see you're quite out of practice. Your little adventure with the Shades stunted you."

"I'm fine." Sherlock replied through his teeth, hands firmly at his sides as he stared out the window.

"Of course. I wouldn't expect anything different." Sherlock turned abruptly, staring at his brother with a half-smirk upon his face.

"How's the kerliants(2)?" It was Mycroft's turn to wear a sour expression.

"Fine." He answered shortly, clearly displeased with the line of conversation. John had ushered the elder brother out quite quickly after that when things seemed to worsen.

Only a few days later, and Sherlock began to grow more restless than usual, spending long hours in the flat instead of spying on the citizens of Guier. He would camp out in the sitting room and kitchen, which had become a disaster area in lieu of his rampant boredom. Papers strewn the floor and table, books halfway organized then scattered about, and random experiments laden any available surface. Knives found their way lodged into walls and counters, feathers turned up in the strangest of places, and many things that John had not previously described as 'off-limits' took on cuts, scrapes, and all manner of damage. A new 'nest' had found its way into the sitting room, right near the fireplace, in which Sherlock would hide himself in. This went on over the course of a week and a half as the weather slowly shifted from the bitter-cold Silence(3), into the wet and green Singing.

On top of that, an odd scent began to permeate from the flat. It followed him to work, taunting him with its familiar yet faint fragrance. He had wondered briefly if Mrs. Hudson had been using some new soap in the cleaning and clothes washing, but upon inspection of said materials, nothing could be found to harbor the rather exotic aroma. For the most part, it hung around the flat, making its presence known at the strangest of times. He chose to ignore it after the fourth day, though it would catch him by surprise, taunting him with a familiarity he just could not place.

It didn't take long for the cause of Sherlock's agitation to become apparent. Feathers were everywhere as his wings thinned, losing much of their gleam, more so at the base of the limbs. New shafts were peeking through, bone white in comparison the black and brown around them. An extremely interesting event to watch take process, yet the clear discomfort Sherlock was in did not bode well for John. One afternoon, after a rather fidgety mid-meal, John found himself cornered, with Sherlock looming over him, desperation clear in his eyes.

"Preen me."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm molting, John. I can't reach half of my wings and you're the only one…available to do so. Without the glove preferably. It'll make it easier." Taken aback, John merely gaped at him, unsure of what to say. It felt highly intimate to touch the limbs without the leather coverings.

"I don't…"

"Oh Amena(4)!" He stepped away, wings trembling as his fingers twitched in effort to not do something. "There are old ones that won't fall out!" For emphasis, the limbs flapped urgently, giving rise to several papers, sending them all over the room. "It's driving me mad!"

"Alright, calm down. I'll… groom you; just stop moving those things for a minute!" Sherlock nodded gratefully and nearly dragged John to his couch, in which John took a seat while Sherlock nearly sprinted away, coming back just as quickly with a soft toothed brush. He settled in front of the doctor, back facing the sofa as he handed John the brush over his shoulder.

"How do I…" John asked after a moment of indecision.

"Brush the plumage, and if any loose feathers stick out, pick them off." Sherlock answered shortly, impatient as always. "Gently. They hurt."

"I could get Mrs. Hudson to-"

"No."

"Right." It began simply enough, with only a few moments of Sherlock hissing in discomfort as John accidentally brushed too roughly, the slightly reddened skin underneath blaring up at him. He had to keep from absentmindedly rubbing at the wings, worrying for their sensitivity and his own sanity. The 'old' feathers began to accumulate next to him on the sofa and he rhythmically worked from wing to wing.

"What's the point of making these so hard to reach if you can't get them yourself?" He had just finished the stump and moved to its opposite, silently praising the remarkable healing it had gone through. The scar was not too unsightly, and he could see small new feathers growing in around it.

"Anhelans molt in time with one another. It's a family or community event to preen each other. This used to fall to Mycroft until I left, and then some acquaintances afterwards." He said this with a sour sort of connotation, as if the memory of such times did not sit well completely with him. Not wanting to pry, John ignored it and for a while, there was silence.

The task on whole took no more than an hour, though he was reluctant to let him go. It was calm for the first time in two weeks, with Sherlock sitting here quite sedate as John smoothed a hand over one wing, enjoying the feel of the plumage under his fingers. The man seemed to find it pleasing as well, relaxing under the touch. That odd scent permeated from the wings, or possibly just Sherlock himself. It filled his senses, and he felt a flush begin to creep into his cheeks as he continued with the last limb.

His mind went into a haze as the room suddenly grew a bit warmer. He felt drugged, an almost anesthetic quality to his movements as they dragged slowly before his eyes. His own skin was beginning to burn as the faint arousal that had been thrumming under his skin intensified when Sherlock let out a low hum of approval when John removed a particularly odd angled feather. Shaking his head a bit, he finished up quickly, unsure of what was going on. He dismissed Sherlock, before almost stumbling out to door, deciding fresh air was the best remedy for his sudden warmth.

Unfortunately, he was roped into the preening process again the next night, and the following ones as well for the next seven days. Each time, the scent grew a little stronger, and the haze began just a moment earlier. He would ignore it as be he could, but on the third go, he found a few fingers just shy of caressing Sherlock's side. He had pulled back so suddenly, the man had turned his head to give him a rather intense stare before John returned it with a weak smile and going back to the task at hand.

Afterwards, he took a jaunt around the block, the warm Singing air clearing his head, though it did nothing for the burning in his skin nor the tightness in his groin. He would sneak back into the flat, tiptoeing to the washroom to take a cold shower, clearing his mind as best he could of his friend, trying his damn best not to reach down to relieve the growing pressure between his legs.

Wandering out into the rest of the flat would inevitably find him the company of Sherlock once more, who would either ignore him, or watch him out of the corner of his eye, curiosity laden in his minute movements. John didn't know when he had become able to read such things when the man obviously wanted no one to do so, but it often struck him with a proud sense of accomplishment, to be able to know the cold man's emotions with a glance.

It was the seventh night things took a turn for the worse. They were in the customary spot, John having worked from bottom to top this time, keeping his breathing even and thinking of grievous amputations and mortal wounds instead of the man in front of him. Placing the brush down and mentally going over the exact procedure of how to cleanly take a heart out of someone's chest, he lifted Sherlock's top left wing in an effort to search for anymore loose feathers. By this time, most had found themselves into the waste sacks, but a few stubborn ones stuck in an effort to torture both the doctor and the winged man. The replacement plumage was coming in onyx, with a small interweaving pattern of gold. Sherlock blamed the para birds for influencing the color change in his wings, stating that generally in Exemia, the secondary color would be white.

Pinching the waxy covering off one of the new feathers, John noticed a strange slightly tan lump on the underside of the limb, right where it met the back. It was a minor protrusion of the skin with a small amount of clear liquid dribbling from it. Curiously, John reached in, brushing his index and middle finger against its surface. He had but a moment to register its hard yet yielding composition for Sherlock bolted away, swearing rather loudly in his native tongue.

"What did you do?" He snarled, wings tucked firmly into his sides, lower than usual as if to hide the small protrusion.

"Sorry, did that hurt?"

"Yes…no…what did you touch?"

"Something under your wing…" John trailed off, looking down at his fingers. A small bit of the oil had come off onto them, and it gleamed in the glass candle light. Curiously, he brought it to his nose, sniffing it lightly to find that the scent which had been wafting through the flat seemed strongest from the oil. Sherlock's eyes widened considerably before he schooled his expression, taking in a deep breath.

"Okay." He began to walk swiftly presumably to his room, calling back calmly to John. "Wash that off before it dries. Might be acidic." The doctor was to the sink in seconds, water rushing over his hands as Sherlock disappeared down the hall. "Good night."

"Wait-!" The door slammed loudly, leaving John alone, confused as ever. He didn't actually see Sherlock for at least two more days after the little mishap and he would firmly not speak about the matter.

They were in Stamford's workshop, going over the schematics for Sherlock's replacement wings for what was possibly the last time. As the winged man had stated time and time again, they had to be perfect to last detail in order for his unique nervous system to except the new parts. If they were made precisely, his body would accept them as replacements, and they would be integrated into his biology. From the way Sherlock described it, it seemed that the metal and natural components would fuse so the prosthetics would become some remnant of living flesh. It was an exciting theory, one that John honestly hoped to work.

"This shaft will be fused here, to the top of..."

"No, it would need to be here, smoothly as you are capable of doing. This cannot be flawed." Sherlock reminded the blacksmith for the umpteenth time. Thankfully, Stamford was a patient man, having dealt with even worse customers than Sherlock, oddly enough.

"Of course. Oh, I have a model." Sherlock told him to bring it in, and the blacksmith shuffled out the room. John stepped forward to glance over the black and white sketch, noting its design before turning to Sherlock. He himself was studying it carefully, searching for any conceivable issues in design. He had been off the wall, in his own way, once they had settled on the design.

"Excited? You'll be able to fly again when they're done."

"There's nothing to be anticipatory over. There's a 55% chance of this working, and that's merely the success rate off of four documented claims in Exemia. Away from there, the possibility of this working can't be more than thirty." His expression was grim, fingers tapping in an impatient manner on the desk."Besides, its not enough to fly. They need to be connected with my system in order to function in a well-enough manner."

"Try to have some faith. Stamford's working hard on this, for less than he would for a normal patient."

"Faith doesn't produce results, John." Sherlock sneered.

"Yeah, well in Exemia, you can stamp all over someone's hard work, but here, show a little in their handiwork." John hissed back just as Stamford and Molly began to wheel in the covered model on a rickety trolly, leaving Sherlock with no time to reply, though the man did give him the 'this-isn't-over' look. Molly went and stood near John so her teacher and Sherlock could go over the physical model together. She was a nice girl, being rather quiet though bold for taking an apprenticeship as a prosthesis blacksmith. It wasn't a usual occupation for woman, and John had been rather taken aback when she had been introduced to him. Sherlock, of course, had no surprise over it(5).

"It's rather exciting, isn't it?" She said, gazing over at the pair stooping over the model, her eyes shining with anticipation. "I never though I'd get to work on anything for a foreigner before, especially like this." She was beaming contentedly, practically bouncing with it. "I hope he likes the model. I made it myself."

"He'll, uh, probably be fine with it." John lied, not wanting the squash her enthusiasm. Stamford had informed him of her talent, how he was even considering hiring her on full-time once she was done with the apprenticeship.

Glancing over at Sherlock now, he seemed to be nodding in approval as Stamford manipulated some portion of the model for demonstration purposes. The winged man watched thoughtfully, inquiring about some piece, his hand trailing lightly over its gleaming edge. He wondered dismissively if it was natural to envious of an inanimate object.

"He's different." He snapped out of his reverie as her words. She had noticed his gaze, following along the same lines.

"Hm?"

"I mean, of course he is, just..." She trailed off, flushing a bit in embarrassment. "He treats me differently than most people. He didn't even bat an eye when he saw me doing this kind of work or act like I can't handle criticism. It's... nice." She finished with a soft smile, which John returned. The very man in question moved their way, hands pressed together before his mouth as he pondered the model.

"You made the prototype, yes?" He asked after a moment, glancing at she nodded, he continued. "Ah, I recognized your handiwork. There were a number of flaws that I would suggest working on for next time, also the extra designs upon the surface we unnecessary. "

"Oh, uh, well..."

"But the presentation overall was aesthetically pleasing." He added as an after thought when John gave him a pointed look, arms crossed over his chest in disapproval.

"Thank you..." John let it go for the moment. Sherlock had done enough by at least saying thank you, and by the rather nice grin Molly was wearing, he'd done at least a little bit of good. Even here, with him being as infuriatingly rude as possible to a lady, John knew he was trying just a little to please the doctor.

The Singing days began to pass slowly, everything beginning to set its place as the seventh month of their friendship began. Guier was a lively place at the moment, with the days starting to warm. Foreigners from Duoich and Fel began to pour in to see the sights, just in time for the Mid-Singing festival to begin its long arduous set up.

"Are you going to the festivities this year, dearie?" Mrs. Hudson had asked as she cleaned around their flat. She was surprisingly unaffected by Sherlock's antics, moving about them as though they didn't exist.

"Oh yes. The sea-farers coming in have an herb some of my patients have been demanding."

"Wonderful! Are you taking you-know-who with?" She said in a hushed tone, watching as Sherlock strutted around the flat with his violin.

"If he wants to."

"I think it'd be good for him. Get him out of the flat for a while. He's had nothing to do all this time..." She trailed off when Sherlock quit his playing for a moment to give them a questioning glance. John had been thinking about this sometime, fighting with the idea of inviting Sherlock to go with him. It was traditional for a man to ask a woman to the festivities, seeing how most of the event was based around Haldan. Though Sherlock had little care for said rituals, it made him squirm a bit at the idea of asking a man to Mid-Sing.

His next meeting with Mycroft settled the debate, however. They were seated in the ambassador's office, with John relaying the latest developments on Sherlock's replacement wings. The man had a healthy interest in the subject providing all he could during his frequent trips in-between the realms. He had even spent whatever time he had available translating necessary Exemian anatomical and physiological texts into the metal-worker tongue in an effort to speed up the extensive project. John had questioned Sherlock about his brother's motives and had been met with a off-putting glare and an assured statement that the brother enjoyed prying. Any effort to find out where Mycroft received the funds for the prosthetics was deflected with a cold silence.

"With everything in order, he said they'll be done in two more months." John finished, sitting back in his chair, tearing his eyes away from the schematics. The outward design was simplistic in appearance, having the appearance of the bare skeletal structure with long kite shaped blades interconnecting near the base, fanning out as faux feathers. The metal being used was known as sky steel, a strong yet exceedingly light with a gold-bronze hue, used mainly in zeppelins. It was the closest they could come to the hollow bones that made up the man's skeletal structure. There had been a healthy debate on whether or not extra surgery would be needed to remove the stumps left behind by the Shades, Sherlock arguing against and Stamford for, but eventually Mycroft's resources had actually ended the debate. The removal was needed for the longest two would need to be shortened to the humerus in order to work properly. Sherlock had been rather upset by this but eventually he had come to reason.

"Wonderful. The sooner this project can come to an end the better. Get him back to some form of normal life and possibly out of your hair." Mycroft finished seriously, and John couldn't help but feel rather surprised by the statement.

"Out of my hair?"

"Yes, of course. I would assume that you would want your patient out of your way once he's back to some semblance of normal."

"I, well, its not so bad having him around. He's just, uh..." He scratched his head as he fumbled, embarrassment muddying his words. "I've gotten used to having him around." John finished lamely. It was hard to picture life before Sherlock actually. Half a year(6) had gone by, and it felt as though he had always belonged bumming around on the sofa, or contaminating the kitchen with various chemicals and rotting food stuffs. The very thought made him cringe. He finally dared a peek at Mycroft, who had a knowing expression adorning his face. John cast his gaze elsewhere again.

"Really?"

"He drives me up a wall, of course, but, hm..." He searched for something to say, though his tongue seemed to fail him. "I don't want him to go." He finally managed, trying not to sound as upset as the thought was making him. He pressed a hand to his lips in an effort to quell the rather ridiculous torrent of emotions rambling about.

"Understandable, to an extent, though in the end, it is up to him." Mycroft replied, after a moment of quiet. He folded the schematics carefully, pushing them towards John. "You do know this, correct?" John nodded silently. For a second, the ambassador regarded him, studying him over before giving a comforting smile. "Are you going to the Mid-Singing festivities?"

"Yes, I need to trade with the sea-farers this year." John answered, glad to latch onto a different subject.

"Good, ask him to go with you."

"Why?"

"He may be obtuse about some intricacies in daily life, but I assure you that he would enjoy the gesture all the same."

"He'll go either way."

"That may be so, but I'm certain both of you would enjoy it more if the companionship for the day was...intentional." He was right, even if John didn't enjoy admitting it. There was a chime on the clock, surprising the ambassador. "My, I'm sorry to cut this short, but I do have another appointment in a few minutes." John began to stand, clearly dismissed. "Unfortunately, I'll be in Exemia during our next scheduled meeting, but the three-day after would be amiable if possible?"

"Of course." John murmured, before saying a rather hurried goodbye. As he walked down the hall out of the Exemian embassy, a familiar figure brushed into him. "Greg?"The man, turned, indeed revealing himself to be Greg Lestrade, one of the bluecoat's head of investigations.

"John? Surprised to see you here." Whenever the usual forensics department was lacking for the day, John was one of the few doctors called in to fill in that position, due to his floating physician status. When medical needs arose, he was the first on-call to fill the position. He and Lestrade had rather agreeable tastes and seeing him was always a pleasure. "Sorry, can't talk right now. Gotta meet some Exemian ambassador about that murder we've got hopping around the city. You heard of it?"

"Yeah, well the press can't keep it out of the papers, can they?"

"Gods, don't I know it. Some of the boys on the division are thinking the bastard might be not be anything in Trias, so gotta talk to an expert about maybe _finding_ an expert." He said, gesturing to his folder. "Damn Exemians can't be bothered to help with anything if it doesn't necessarily include them. Hey, maybe I'll see you at the festival, yeah?"

"Definitely. I'll look for you." John assured with a chuckle. Lestrade nodded and dashed off with a farewell down the way to Mycroft's office. John really couldn't envy him.

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><p>1- Texly is a common animal raised for slaughter, whose appearance is comparable to a sheep mixed with a sloth.<p>

2-Kerliants (care-lee-ant) is an Exemian term for the active searching for one of two types of 'significant others'.

3- Though metal-workers have little interest in music, all of their seasons are named for the various sounds and crop growth cycles associated with each one. This is shared between all the peoples of Trias and was started by the sea-farers before the Divide. The order goes as such: Singing, Humming, Fading, and Silence.

4- It's the Exemian version of saying 'Oh God'. They do not have a real formal religion, so instead they look towards eight beings called the Guardians to sort out worldly issues. Amena is the Guardian of War and Nature, and is the go to name for swearing.

5- Molly is taking a very bold step for a woman in Trias. Most are only allowed to work very certain jobs if any at all and any sort of smithy work is most definitely not in that strict category, though she most likely wouldn't do much work with metal. She'd be more into the designing aspect, where Stamford would do the making part.

6- Years in Trias are consisted of fourteen months, each comprised of four weeks made up of eight days consisting of 26 hours each, which is eighty-three days longer than our year.

Hope you enjoyed! Next chapter should be up by next Saturday, if all goes according to plan. Looks like this story will be a little longer than ten chapters, because of reasons. Anyways, please review!


	8. Chapter 7: Tides Changing

**Author's Note:** Here we are, finally. I'm relatively amazed that these chapters flush out the way they do. I have a mental checklist of what's supposed to go in each, yet it never completely works. If I had put everything I wanted into this chapter, it would be around 10,000 words long, so what happens in next one was actually supposed to be in this one! Anyways, thank you for the lovely reviews, and I hope you enjoy it. I loved writing it.

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><p><strong>Chapter 7: Tides Changing<br>**

"Sherlock," John started, not actually knowing how to form the question. He had been sitting on it for three days, turning it over and over, knowing full well that any anxiety on the asking part was unfounded. It was the idea that had him flustered. He was getting on in years, and the bluecoats would be watching for any man without a lady on his arm.

"Hm?" Sherlock hummed back, hunched over the kitchen table, small dropper in his hand, suspended over one of his own onyx feathers on a rather old plate. The glass dropper was filled with a very ominous looking green liquid, one which John could not identify at a glance.

"I was wondering…" He continued, though the other man seemed to pay no mind.

"Two should suffice." Sherlock murmured to himself, allowing a very precise drop to fall onto the feather. It immediately began to sizzle.

"Are you listening?" Clearly not, for the next drop was added, resulting in a horrendous crack, the shaft exploding under the liquid's attention. Sherlock stepped back, a small amount of ash from the minor explosion upon his cheek, a self-satisfied grin planted firmly on his lips.

"Just as I expected."

"If you knew that would happen, why do it?"

"I did realize the reaction, but not what would cause it specifically; the oil or the feather. If it had occurred in one drop, it was the overlaying oil. It happened on the second, meaning it ate through the oil, igniting on contact with the dead material instead."

"And what cause such a thing to happen?" Sherlock held out the vial, still observing his feather curl in on itself due to the heat of the sudden rupture. Taking it, John noted with a laugh that it was the active ingredient in a common skin lotion used for allergic rashes.

"Glad I never had to prescribe you this." John stated, impressed at the find, though frightened at the prospects. Thankfully, the liquid was a distilled form of a relatively exotic plant found nowhere in Guier, and the likelihood of Sherlock having it sprayed onto his wings was slim to none.

"There'd be no real reason for it." He muttered, moving the ash left behind around the plate with a mild interest. John watched for a few moments, the absurdity of the event putting him off from asking his question. Sighing in frustration, he began to walk to out of the kitchen, planning on inquiring Sherlock tomorrow.

"John?" He turned back, startled when Sherlock was quite a bit closer than before, having moved the few feet from the table to just in front of him silently. "Would you mind accompanying me to the festivities next week? I'm assuming that's what you meant to ask, and if I went with you, you could answer any of my inquiries with more ease than the other citizens. Problem?" He asked after a moment of John's appearing completely baffled. He was trapped between a door frame and Sherlock, the man much too close for any real coherent thought.

"Ye-no. No. That sounds…" He struggled with a word, thoughts still attempting to balance out after the rather sudden turn of events. Sherlock shifted, and John could feel his knee brush against his lower thigh. "Fine. Good, even." He ended lamely, with a hopefully reassuring smile, though it most likely ended up as a grimace. Sherlock returned it nonetheless, something strange in his expression. "I mean, I'm not going for the whole day. Just to trade, with the sea-farers." He added in haste, nearly smacking himself for it when Sherlock's face fell minutely and a tightness that followed through to his wings, making them seize ever so slightly. It was then that he noticed their close proximity, taking a minute step back. John released the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

"Wonderful." He was on the move again, this time towards the entrance to the flat.

"Where are you going?" John asked, anxious that he had offended the man somehow.

"Worry not. I'll return shortly." He replied, and was out the door before John could stop him. Needless to say, he didn't return until sometime after John had forced himself to sleep, the irrational fear of some murder prowling after Sherlock keeping him from a good rest. In fitful twists and turns in his sheets, he maneuvered reluctantly between sleep and wakefulness, finally collapsing into a deep slumber hours after actually having fallen into bed.

The next morning was embarrassing at best. His exhausted mind had supplied rather heated dreams in the depths of his unconscious and upon seeing Sherlock tacking up some new article on the wall wearing only his sleeping pants, leaving him half bare to the rest of the flat, served as a reminder of what had transpired in his slumber. His cheeks flushed at the memory of tender touches and seductive words whispered in a velvet voice that left him aching when he awoke suddenly to the bright morning. Sherlock had given him an odd look when John pointedly ignored his attempts at conversation, adding that the doctor was in an odd sort of mood.

John worried he knew. He had to know. He knew every other bloody thing that happened to him, so why not a raunchy dream involving the two of them? Regardless, Sherlock didn't comment, and John certainly wasn't going to either.

It was just outside the entrance to the flat as he came home from his last appointment of the day that John heard a loud thunk of knife sinking into wood. He made to enter, but Mycroft's voice carried through the door, piquing his curiosity enough to keep him from breaking the conversation within.

"Calm, Sherlock." He heard the elder Holmes say. There was the tell-tale rustle of feathers and stamping feet as Sherlock paced the room in agitation. "By the Eight(1), you reek." The older brother must've just arrived not moments before John, or at least Sherlock had just taken notice of him.

"I assure you my hygienic habits are perfectly sound, Mycroft." Sherlock sneered in a sarcastic tone.

"You know what I mean. Don't be deliberately obtuse."

"Pointing out the obvious doesn't become you." Sherlock replied, the fury from his previous statement weakened. There was a pause before he let out a frustrated noise. "They've been acting up since the molt." It came out with some reluctance, and John could just see Mycroft's disappointed frown at Sherlock's admission.

"You realize what this means."

"No, I've conveniently forgotten." Came the snarled reply, anger flaring up once more in his condescending words. Silence rang clear once more before, "What am I to do?" Defeat, unrest. John felt his hand touch the knob on the door before him, but withdrew as his interest won out over guilt. "I don't need this. Not here. Not now. I've barely reached the proper age for it, for Amena's sake! I could scrape by before this with the injury and all, yet my body demands more Zwa(2) than I can give now."

"It's not something you control. If it were, Exemia would be a mess." He sounded as close to soothing as Mycroft seemed capable of becoming. "It might help to-"

"Help what? No matter how bold I may be, the outcome is still an impossibility. How am I supposed to deal with the damned emotions fighting through when there's no outlet or how am I supply myself when I have nothing to fuel it with?"

"Why, Sherlock, that was almost poetic. You could give the Vhrekrara a run for their blood."

"Please don't joke, Mycroft. A Linlia(3) cries every time you do. I see you've located your kerlaily, and I thought I smelled of pheromones."

"You would do best to keep silent on that matter." Mycroft's tone was a quiet sort of warning, backed by a very minute thrum of power. "I suggest you keep your distance for the time being until a better solution presents itself. It's terrible for one to go through such a thing at your age. You've not even begun to grasp your abilities. I will begin sending infusions to you until this mess is sorted out." John wanted to enter at this point, as quiet seeped in once more, yet the mention of his name stopped him momentarily once more.

"I asked John to accompany me next week." It was quiet, almost a whisper that John had nearly missed. "He agreed."

"You're torturing yourself, Sherlock." Mycroft's voice was low, a hint of sympathy and apology lacing his words. "If I had known the extent of this, I would not have pushed him this way."

"I know." It was now John decided to tiptoe quietly away, before heading back, in a rather loud manner before entering the flat. The brother's had themselves composed around the sitting room, voices now hushed as John made his way into the area.

"John." Sherlock stated in a manner of greeting.

"Not interrupting anything, am I?" He asked, glancing at Sherlock questioningly as he stood, arms folded over his chest and wings in their default position.

"Of course not." Mycroft assured, standing from his seat and staring pointedly at his brother. "I was just informing Sherlock that Mummy sends her concern, and hopes for your swift recovery."

"Tell her that the concern is a just shy of a few years short." He retorted, dramatically flopping down into John's usual seat. Mycroft seemed just short of rolling his eyes, before turning to John.

"Well, I'll take my leave then." He and John shook hands, abruptly making his way out. The brother that John was left with seemed to be in no mood for conversation, thus he resigned himself to a quiet evening of not mulling over what he had heard earlier It was none of his business what Sherlock and his brother discussed in private. The week passed by in a blur, and before he knew it, the festival day was upon them.

In the midst of Guier during Mid-Spring was a beautiful and fantastic place to be. The buildings were decorated in foreign vegetation and reflective metals, the people wore costumes and gowns that one could only find on this special day, and everything was just as bright and wondrous as it could be. Children ran by, squealing happily with candy and flowers in their hands as their parents followed arm in arm behind. Exotic animals roared and huffed from various cages, swiping at onlookers from behind the bars. It was the celebration of growth and new life, an homage to fertility and love that stretched back before the Divide.

John utterly hated it ever since he'd grown out of adolescence, when the expectations began to flow in. One could not simply enjoy the day with an ulterior motive. To be alone on such a festivity was to fight a nazzer with one's bare hands, being pierced and bit by the sharp claws of societal expectations. This time round, he may have had no woman to share the day with, but Sherlock was a fantastic thing as well. He had even allowed John to groom his wings, with gloves, in preparation for the festival.

Coerced into a nice outfit, the man could've come straight from one of the few romance novellas his sister had left in his flat. Tall, handsome, exotic, John knew that he was utterly proud to have such a creature accompanying him. He had to firmly reprimand himself when the man had met him in the sitting room, telling himself over and over than it meant nothing, was nothing. He and Sherlock were to go to the docks, then leave. Nothing frivolous, nothing romantic. A friendly jaunt to trade with the sea-farers on the only day they came into the capital, or so John deluded himself with.

Except, underneath all of John's self-reassuring, he knew what this was, what it could be. He ignored the joyous emotion ringing around in his heart as they stepped along with the crowd, falling back on the best tactic for this sort of thing. Performers whooped and shouted in the morning light, calling out to their audience as they performed various lively acts. Children gasped in delight as a single conjurer pulling a flower from his sleeve, tucking it gently into a small girl's hair. Bluecoats watched on, eyes open for any trouble, and ears open for any gossip. This was their hunting ground, though the mornings would yield little fruit. Later, when the drinks were passed around and inhibitions went out the window, they would descend upon the unsuspecting revelers with brutal yet silent force.

One of the officer began to look his way, and he rushed Sherlock through the street, careful to avoid the watching man's gaze. He needed no unwanted attention today. He glanced at Sherlock, noting his interest in the performers dealing out paltry tricks. The real talent came out after mid-day, when night began to descend and less children would be around to watch dangerous and lewd acts.

"I must be somewhat pleasing if you keep staring at me." Sherlock commented, smirking with his wings puffed in self-pride, damn him. He was a darker sight among the bright colors of the people around them, with his tight outfit and black feathers. Many heads turned as they pushed through the singing, excited crowds, the gold in his wings pushing through the onyx with every few steps.

"You're hilarious. Besides, I need to make sure you aren't mobbed by all of the single women fixed on you." It was partially true, to say the least. Women, with or without a man, stared openly at the Exemian, many with a curious and hungry gaze. He maneuvered himself a bit closer to his friend, unable to resist the protective need that overcame him. Sherlock said nothing to this, thankfully.

As they neared the docks, the morning suns casting their light upon the open canals brought many bystanders to the water's edge. When Gueir was built, the streets nearest the ocean had been laid not on land, but on water, allowing for canals to be built into the roads, for when the sea-farers came into the Northern lands. There top had been slid away for the festivities, creating great gaps in the middle of the roads, winding through the city so their users could experience this foreign terrain.

Here and now, the odd people swam forth, maneuvering into the waterways gracefully. A strange yet lovely sight, each one was a tanned torso, satchels around their necks, with a mass of tentacles underneath, ranging in all colors and patterns. A low hum of song passed between them, their large dark eyes gazing around the capital in awe and wonder John could hear small whispers in his mind, too fleeting and quiet to be snagged on properly. A blissful emotion exuded from the swimming people(4), smiles upon their singing lips. The relaxing effect calmed his anxiety, and his hand bumping into Sherlock's wrist of its own accord, lightly touching the warm skin though he couldn't be bothered to worry about it. The murmurs passing into John's mind strengthened as he caught the eye of an older sea-farer, and the crowed parted for him and Sherlock as the swimming man made his way over.

"Greetings, John." It was said seemingly out-loud though the person's lips were tightly shut. It took a moment to realize the cool words echoed in his mind in a soothing voice as the sea-farer reached the edge of the canal. John stooped, grinning for no real reason.

"How did you know my name?" He answered back in quiet tone.

"You told it to me, in your thoughts. Pushed to the forefront so I did not have to dig. How very kind…" Each syllable rang slightly within the confines of his skulls, comforting him in an alien yet welcome way. One thin brown boneless limb pushes itself upward from the mass of wriggling tentacles, tapping John's hand lightly from where it rests on the side of the canal. Its smooth cool surface effortlessly feeling along the doctor's wrist as the sea-farer cocked his head in a curious manner, pale fuchsia eyes searching John's face. "I would ask to see you. Your past, if you allow. A touch to the temple is all I need and I promise it shall not hurt."

John surprised himself by nodding, allowing the thin curious limb to touch his temple lightly. His eyes closed instantly when the sea-farer made contact, darkness descending. "I see." The voice was stronger, its resonation no longer echoing as the whispers of the other sea-farers died away, along with the rabble of the festival. Flashes came behind his eyes lids, of his childhood, his mother's smile, Harry next to him in the city snacking on candy, then of his education days behind a desk fighting off the boredom and exhaustion, a collective blur before him. His time in the military on the sands of the Southern lands, fighting Ungar determined to claim metal-worker territory, the pain and loss of his fellows all around him, the loneliness after his service, sitting secluded in his flat, failed attempts at wooing some woman, and then Sherlock falling into his home, broken and bloodied.

"You worry so much… All the earth's people do…" His time with Sherlock was slower than the rest, their brief lives together being flashed before through this sea-farer's touch. It began to fade, even though he clung to it, emotions uninhibited, un-altered by his own doubt and anxiety. The quiet comfort of quiet evenings with the winged man, the affectionate irritation of finding another rotting something in the kitchen, the worry over his possible leaving…

He felt the touch withdraw and reality seeped back into place as he eyes flew open. The rush of outside noise nearly deafened him as he adjusted to being a part of the physical world again. No longer in the safety and quiet of his own head, he was still crouching by the canal side, with people moving to and fro about him, the sea-farer comforting him with a soft smile. "Oruik…" he whispered, heart pounding as the city settled back over him.

"You wished for the evra roots?" It took a moment for the question to sink in, the real reason he came to the canals eventually worming into his mind.

"Right… yes. I…uh…" He couldn't gather his tongue for a second, still fighting back against the feeling of being pushed into his body. "Have some things for trade…" The sea-farer shook his head, lifting a white hand to place over John's.

"You have gifted me with your life, friend(5)." He reached into the waterproof satchel around his neck, pulling out a smaller sack, slightly damp. Lifting John's own hand, he placed the leather pouch into his palm, closing his own fingers over. "Accept these as payment."

"Thank you…" John tried, unsure of what to say. The sea-farer merely beamed, patting his hand with one of his lower limbs.

"You are a very interesting man, John." He glanced over to Sherlock, John following his gaze. The man had attracted a sea-farer of his own, the younger creature touching one of Sherlock's wings with a dark red tentacle, smoothing over the feathers in a gentle manner. John felt something swell in his heart at the sight as his own sea-farer looked back towards him. "But you've been granted extraordinary circumstance. Do not go home after this, John. Your adventure does not end here." He moved away, gliding through the water with a practiced ease towards the city.

"Interesting people." The deep voice of his friend pulled him back to the here and now, as the sea-farers began to swim through the streets. He stood quickly, facing his companion.

"I thought they'd be right in your area." John commented. Sherlock chuckled lightly, twirling a large deep crimson stone between his fingers.

"Generally those with mind altering abilities are much more reserved with them, though the effects they cause are quite welcome." John huffed in laughter.

"What's that they gave you?" He asked, nodding towards the stone.

"Hm? Oh, this. The person wanted a feather, so I obliged and handed me this." He in turn handed it over when John silently asked for it, as they moved towards the sidewalk away from the disbanding crowd. Its weight was minute for its size, just shy of being the width of his fist, smooth and cool from the waters of the ocean. He immediately recognized its type, relatively surprised by the gift.

"This is worth a small fortune. Why on Trias would he trade it for a feather?" It was a revart stone, used mainly in decoration and jewelry. A very rare and lovely gem found only in the depths of the ocean that was highly sought by only the highest of class and at this size, it could rake in a good chunk of money. Enough at least to cover at least two annuals' worth of work for John.

"I have no knowledge on their indigenous beliefs, but the person was not in any mood to allow me to walk away without it." He answered with a shrug, holding his hand out to take it back. Though reluctant, John gave it to him, praying silently to any god listening that the man would not lose the valuable stone. "I'm going to stay out here for the remainder of the day." Sherlock stated, as they continued their journey, geared back towards the flat.

"Actually, I was going to stay out for a bit as well." The expression on the other man's face was of utter shock."Don't look like that. You need to be watched." He insisted, knowing Sherlock didn't buy a second of it.

"Am I some sort of animal now?" He asked with a relative amount of indignation though mostly amusement.

"No, but you've never been out on a day like this." Sherlock scoffed at him, wings flapping involuntarily at what he might be implying.

"Please. I'm more than capable of handling myself among less savory persons. I've fought off larger things than a metal-worker with a little too much drink in his system, but if you insist on keeping an eye on me, I'll oblige." He ended with a smile, one wing patting John on the shoulder. He let out a soft laughter, batting away the intruding appendage.

"I'm not keeping an eye on you. I'm your guide for today."

"Anyway you wish to put it is fine by me. Tell me, where shall we head off to first then, my guide?" They disputed a moment, arguing over the stands selling oddities of the outside world, run by the large winged men, or watching the performers. Eventually, they agreed on visiting the animal cages, Sherlock becoming bent on the idea when John mentioned they would be carted away after mid-meal. They were placed in rows along a particular street, passerby's stopping to study the exotic creatures from across the world. Sherlock was no exception.

"Fascinating." He murmured as they took in the grey four-arm abuirn. It hooted at them, hanging from a branch as it swung to and fro. It's squashed little face scrunched up at the sight of the winged man, one of its arms releasing its hold to swipe a paw at them. They made their way through the make-shift menagerie, Sherlock making comparisons to Exemian animals as time went on. Eventually, they wound up in front of the attention getter: a fully grown, eight-legged nazzer.

It hissed in a broken way, square head tossing as it snarled at gawkers. Blind in sight for it had no eyes, yet not in other senses, it was curled up in the corner of its cage, thick tail thrashing every now and then. As he and Sherlock came to front of the cage, its kite-shaped spines that ran the course of its back, stood to attention, vibrating in interest. It snuffled lightly, slinking slowly from its spot to crawl across the floor. Coming to the bars of its prison, it watched them in its own way, head bobbing along its thick neck, jaws snapping quietly as it took in John and Sherlock's forms. Reptilian in nature and body, the nazzer's heated breaths sent instinctual warnings all through John's mind, despite the safety of the situation. He stepped back a little, a trickle of sweat beading along his brow as he noted the black talons, thin whipping tail, and violet spines.

He'd fought a pack of nazzers once in the Southern lands, though fought was inflating his own prowess. He had escaped them when they had ambushed his sect, far from any back-up or cover. Four had surrounded his encampment, snarling and hissing in triumph as the twelve soldiers scrambled for their weapons. Only five had made it out alive as the nazzers dragged everyone else off. He knew what they were like out of their cages. Swift and unforgiving, they winded smooth as water along a track, poisonous mouths gnashing and claws ripping as they used all eight of their limbs to take down anything in their path. The worst part was their spines. They could feel your presence from miles away, vibrating to pick up any minute smells, movements, or even the barest traces of fear wafting from a poor human's body. He had been lucky to survive the attack.

"Back off." Sherlock ordered, voice full of confidence and power, wings pushing out in a defensive position when the nazzer snarled at John, feeling his fear with its spines. It whimpered under Sherlock's tone, snapping its jaws at him before winding its way to the corner once more. That smell, the unusual scent that had been underlying in the flat ever since Sherlock's molt hit John's senses now. He felt suddenly dizzy as the nazzer and Sherlock stared each other down. It subsided quickly enough, though his skin felt flushed and twitchy from its influence.

"How did you do that?" John asked when they were well away from the caged monster. The suns were reaching their mid-day peak, people beginning to leave the streets in search of food.

"An old Elkieron trick. One must sound stronger that an animal for it to listen. Works on most Exemian predators. Unfortunately, I'm the worst example of using it, and if we were in the wilderness with a nazzer that had spent its life outside of a cage, we'd both be ripped apart." He answered dismissively, his feathered appendages just now resuming their tucked in posture. They were wandering towards the stalls now, eying the foreign wonders from afar. There were several dotting the city, but the ones Sherlock insisted on were run by flying men. The merchants stood, smiling at passing citizens, reeling them in to purchase their wares. Behind them stood their own guards, also flying men with wings puffed and shown off to intimidate any would be thieves. They were large, a good foot taller than any metal-worker, burly muscles filling in their clothes.

They watched Sherlock especially, curious as to his six appendages and light figure. "My, my, my." One merchant said, his sly face curling into a clever smirk as they paused in front of his wares. "An Exemian has graced my presence. How wonderful, and here I thought you would have three heads to accompany so many limbs!" He barked in laughter, his own feathers flapping in his humor. "But of course, it seems you've taken a run-in with a knife. You must feel so much lighter now."

"I would assume the less strain on your mind from only two wings would be beneficial, but here you are, proving me wrong. Is it nice having such silent thoughts, or are you too stupid to notice?" Behind the stunned merchant, his two thick guards stepped forward a small amount, trying to stare down Sherlock, though he ignored them easily."These all seem to be in order, though I highly doubt you obtained them legally." He said, gesturing the different types of jewelry on display before him. "Stolen, perhaps. This is metal-worker craft, not your gliding types'. Raided a caravan that happened to close to your mountains, I assume. Were there any survivors?"

"I would shut that soft mouth of yours. It would not do to have such pretty plumage torn off." The merchant hissed pupils narrowed, though his dull grey wings were withdrawing as Sherlock's own moved forward. He had taken the same stance as when faced with the nazzer, a rather intimidating sight. A display of dominance, one that John knew Sherlock would win if it were just that, yet the two guards were getting more and more agitated, itching for their employer to give them a reason to tear into the Exemian.

"Ah, so there weren't any."

"Sherlock, come on." John urged, trying to remove him from the situation.

"I'd listen to your owner, bird." The merchant snarled. The aroma came again, nearly staggering John though no other metal-workers, curious by the two foreign person's dispute, around seemed to notice. The flying man did though, eyes widening in some sort of disbelief. He motioned to his guards, fear laced in his expression, and they almost flew at Sherlock, though a voice stopped them.

"Hold on." It was Lestrade. John had been too busy watching the display to notice the bluecoat step up. He stood between Sherlock and the guards."Having a spot of trouble over here?" He asked the merchant, guards paused in their motions, unsure of what to do with the official in between them and their quarry. The merchant waved them off, and they went back to their positions.

"Not at all, sir. Merely a dispute over price. Though it would be appreciated to remove the trouble-maker, thank you." He answered politely, far too smug for John's liking.

"Course. Come on then." Lestrade grabbed Sherlock roughly by the arm, leading him away with John in tow. The winged man went willingly until they were far enough out of earshot, pulling back and straightening out his sleeve when they reached a clear patch of sidewalk.

"I would prefer you to not touch. Mycroft sent you." Lestrade looked taken aback for a moment, before crossing his arms over his chest. "His scent is very well known to me. Getting acquainted are we? He can be very pushy..."

"Alright, shut it. He said you would know, but I don't need to hear it from you."

"There's been a fourth murder, hasn't there?"

"Yeah, just found the body this morning. Your brother said you could help, and I bloody well need it." He insisted gruffly. Confused, John look between the two.

"Wait, what?" He asked.

"The murders. Can't find the killer, so we need someone who can sniff him out. Mycroft said his brother could, so here we are then." He glanced back to Sherlock, taking him in. "I was just about to head to your flat, when I saw you and the merchant about get in a row."

"It was of little consequence. The man was an idiot, and I was more than capable to handle a few hired arms, especially with John at my side." Sherlock assured.

"Yeah, but then you'd be spending the night in a cell when someone off the street division came to collect you for public violence. Will you come with?" The man was almost begging. It was easy to see that the stress of having a homicidal maniac on the loose for almost seven months was putting a strain on the senior bluecoat. Of course, all the power was in Sherlock's hands now.

"And why should I? Solving a murder is none of my business, and rather gruesome at that."

"Please. I'm desperate, and your the only one that can help." If John hadn't been watching the man's face, he would've missed the barest hint of a conniving smirk that flashed in and out of existence within seconds.

"Very well. Lead the way."

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><p>1- By the Eight is another expression, referencing Exemian's eight Guardians.<p>

2- Vhrekrara(vray-krar-ah, roll the r's) and Linlia(linn-lee-ah) are two other sub-species of human in Exemian along with Anhelans and Dekins, (there's seven in total).

3- Zwa is the technical term for the Exemian 'power'. It is a worldwide phenomenon with in the realm, and is often confused by outsiders for being 'magic'(Though, it basically is). Ask any Exemian, and you get a long-winded answer about how it's energy that runs the ecosystem, being found in every living thing, and Exemians are just capable of manipulating it in order to do 'magical-like things'. They will also tell you that magic is for the Fel, and then proceed to hate you silently for the rest of their extremely long lives.

4- Sea-farers have excessive mental abilities, though they are mainly used in order to extort a happy emotion over anyone they come in contact with that isn't one of their own. In doing so, they have successfully avoided all forms of war with the other two peoples of Trias. Etiquette among the people dictates that you scan the forefront of the conscious, delving no deeper than fleeting thoughts and emotions other people have. To go deeper requires the psychic to ask specifically.

5- 'Gifting life' is the general term for allowing a sea-farer to see your past through your memories. This is thought to be a very special gift among the group, since they use each new person's story in songs and remembrance. Interesting fact: It was once a personal journey to have a sea-farer catalog your life, so you would never be forgotten, even after all those who knew you had passed on. Of course, this has died out in the recent years.

Thank you for reading and please review!


	9. Chapter 8: A Sightless Gaze

**Author's Note:** Apologies for lateness. College is apparently important and I agonized over this chapter and how to end it, but...here it is. Please enjoy, and thank you for the reviews on last chapter! They make me smile and brighten my day. Warnings for violence and macabre images.

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><p><strong>Chapter 8: A Sightless Gaze<br>**

The stagnant air greeted them as they entered the townhouse, Lestrade leading the way. It was sparsely decorated, save for the base furniture and a rather ugly vase, and something about the place gave John the chills. It was in the atmosphere, that energy that he had felt around Sherlock and his brother the last time they had been together. His skin crawled from its heavy presence as they moved about the rooms, finding nothing of real interest. Sherlock, however stooped often to examine every detail.

Empty and cold, they traversed from room to room, yet found nothing, save for a large amount of dolls in what appeared to be a young girl's room. They sat upon a low shelf, staring transfixed out towards the small bed, their glass eyes as blank as the whitewashed walls. Upon entering the master bedroom, however, a different scene unfolded. A man, late thirties, heavy set, lay on his back, glossy dead eyes open, gazing at the ceiling. His clothes were rumpled and loose, shirt still unbuttoned as though it had been put on in a hurry. John had seen many deceased over the years as a medical professional and a soldier, but this one disturbed him like no other.

The man had clearly struggled with his murdered, bruises having bloomed on his right cheek and abdomen, yet blunt force did not seem to have caused his end. The man's cause of death was clear as day for his throat seemed to have burst open, as if ripped into for the many layers were peeled back to serve as the petals for some sort of macabre blossom. His cervical vertebrae appeared to have been pulled through the back of his neck forward as it served for the stem of this grotesque flower.

"Indrid have mercy…" John whispered, bile rising in his throat.

"They were all like this. Whatever thing did this has some sick sense of humor." Lestrade commented, as Sherlock stooped over the corpse, his gloved fingers gently moving over the skin.

"Were they all this clean?" He asked, moving away from the neck to examine the man's bare arms.

"Clean?"

"The skin and muscle are smoothly cut part, with a practiced art. Were the others like this as well?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"It has to do with everything!" Sherlock insisted calmly, now pulling the man's pant legs up. "He was a merchant, married ten plus years, extremely successful for the past two though…" He murmured to himself.

"Now hang on, we haven't even identified the stiff yet. How do you know all of this?" Lestrade asked, though Sherlock ignored him, continuing to pull off the corpses' socks, before crying out in triumph when looking over the heel.

"Perfect… Take a glance at this." The skin had a distinctive silver discoloration, as though the skin had morphed into steel. The winged man even rapped a knuckle against it, a clear ring resounding through the room. "Elkieron steel. This was a hit." He smiled to himself for a moment, standing and turning to Lestrade. "You're looking for a person, most likely female, around the age of twenty-eight years, either completely or partially bald, black eyes, and around John's height." He said, relatively assured of himself.

"How could you possibly know all of that?" Lestrade questioned, arms crossed over his chest, a disbelieving expression set upon his face.

"How long as he been dead, Dr. Watson?" Sherlock turned to John, the smirk just lying under the surface of his calm façade.

"No longer than a week, I'd say." He replied after a quick check over.

"Right, and what's missing?" When neither John nor Lestrade could come up with something, he continued. "The smell. This man's been dead a week and there's no odor of decay? That means someone's removed it and only three types of people can wipe scent from anything in its entirety: Ungar, Exemians, and Outska. That was the first clue. Next is his neck. While being possible, the angle of the spinal cord is sticking straight up. It's stiff, immoveable." He demonstrated, trying to wiggle the structure. It had little give under his ministrations.

"It's been hardened and the peels of skin and muscle are too perfect for even the most trained surgeon. So not done by hand. Ungar cannot manipulate the body into doing such things, plus while they can wipe a scent, they have to clear all other smells as well. The floral odor from the daughter's room still stands in the home, as well as the wife's perfume, so this can't be Ungar work. Lastly is his heel. The flesh and bone have been turned to metal. Nothing can do that in Exemia save for one thing: an Outska. They don't leave Exemia unless their hired or stolen to do so, and have a relatively strict policy against murder.

"So, the person was taken hired from Exemia, but they're young. They had no formal training over their powers, explaining the heel, yet have enough control to do this to a man's neck. Outska gain full control around the age of fifty, though they have enough not to caused subsidiary effects by thirty. The changing of living tissue to non comes around twenty-five years, placing the person's age at between the two. Statistically speaking, female Outska are easy to find than male, placing her gender."

"How did you figure her appearance?"

"All Outska look the same. At puberty, their hair falls out and their eyes darken. It's textbook." Lestrade's eye widened, peering over at the corpse with an astounded interest.

"Right. You said this was a hit…"

"Obviously. He's a merchant, telling by his rather bright clothing and the paperwork on his desk. He was struggling most likely, found some help, refused to pay the help back, and was murdered for his problems. They took most of the valuables in the house in order to make up for his debt. Plus the daughter, and the wife."

"They took the-"

"Slave trade(1). Easy enough to sell children, though an older woman doesn't fetch as much, they could make a rather nice amount off her. Don't bother looking for them. They're probably realms away."

"Sherlock." John said in a warning tone, not liking the direction of the man's words.

"Alright, so how do we catch the killer?" Lestrade asked finally, appearing just as perplexed as John felt. For a long moment, Sherlock said nothing, gazing as the corpse at their feet. He could almost see the gears turning in his mind as he assessed the situation. Yet it wasn't in his furrowed expression that John could see some nefarious scheme coming into fruition. There was no tell-tale hidden smile, or a twitch of the fingers, but his wings cocked ever so slightly, each one raising a millimeter as they spread just so as something came to Sherlock's mind. John knew it was an unconscious move and he wondered what the man had up his sleeve.

"No, sorry." He answered with a small shrug, pacing a little about the room, ending up with his back to the bedside table. It was a believable act, and if John hadn't spent the last seven months in Sherlock's presence, he might have believed it. "Will that be all, officer?"

"Yes. I'll have to get my feelers out for this woman." He answered, dismissing them.

"Come on John." Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder, nearly pushing him from the room, much the John's dislike. He didn't let up until they had officially left the home, and were far from the ears of any guarding bluecoats.

"Oruik, would you let go already!" The man's hand had found itself gripping John's bad shoulder relatively harshly in his excitement. "Why did you lie to him?"

"Couldn't possibly know what you mean."

"No, you… Your wings did that little moving thing whenever you're about to do something out of line."

"Firstly, I couldn't know what you're talking about with my wings." In response, the appendages pulled themselves tight to his back. "Secondly, I have hit a dead end, until," From within the confines of his coat, he pulled out the little porcelain doll that had sat upon the bedside table. "I find out where this comes from." He held it out triumphantly, the doll's auburn curls bouncing along with his excitement, strange blue stone eyes glinting in the mid-day light.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Could be nothing, could be everything." He examined with a quiet interest. "It was propped precisely so it could watch over the dead man's body."

"What if it was the little girl's? She had a dozen of them." Sherlock shook his head, tucking the small toy into a pocket inside his coat.

"Possible, though unlikely. Her collection was impressive, a run-off from her father's financial endeavors seeing how each from the most expensive of makers. Three were from a shop by the docks, five being more mid-city, while the last four being imported goods. This one however is brand new, though a little dusty. Most likely from a closed shop, one the owner had to leave in a hurry or was unable to return to clear out his merchandise. Plus, the make is rather cheap, unfitting for a higher class child, and the unique stone used for the eyes puts it far away from what the little girl had.

"No, the doll was nowhere near the home until the night of the murder. Our Outska placed it there when she took out the merchant."

"But why?"

"A cry for help(2). There's a reason Outska do not leave Exemia. She's going insane from it. She's asking for someone to stop her."

"Does she want to go back?"

"Most likely, yet she won't be able to, not with the damage already done to her mind(3). She wants it to end, and as the only Exemia near enough to give such a courtesy, I couldn't allow the bluecoats to flush the murderer out. If she were to escape, the strain of being off-realm could snap what hold she has and there will be more bodies to clean up than the four we have now. Outska are peaceful beings, so she wouldn't want that, and if she's under hire, or collared, more likely, she can't seek help. Thus…"

"The doll's a beacon to her hideout?"

"Precisely. Now to find someone to point us in the right direction." They were off again, away from the clear alley into the thinning crowds upon the streets. With mid-day passing already, the adults knew the festivities ahead, giving the revelers an almost vibrating appearance as they anticipated the debauchery to come. Parents began shooing their children home to settle with any caretakers and rest up for nightly activities. Fortunate for the pair, making the roads easier to navigate, as the animal cages were beginning to roll away and the merchant stands began packing up for the day.

They moved silently, Sherlock searching through the people for some unknown individual. John wanted to ask for whom he was searching for, but when he did, his only answer was a rather short comment about 'interrupting concentration'. After thirty minutes however of ducking into alleys and roaming aimlessly through the streets, John began to lose his patience.

"I could help if you just told me who were looking for." He was met with silence and they pressed on. It wasn't for another twenty minutes that they found the person Sherlock was searching for.

She was a small girl, no older than five annuals, brunette curls framing her pale cheeks. Her wide brown eyes watched shyly as Sherlock approached a foreign friendly smile on his face. She clutched a dirty, well-worn doll to her chest and a small white flower was pushed behind her ear, the kind that the conjurers had been doling out to the children earlier that morning.

"She's very lovely." Sherlock commented as he crouched down to be near her level, indicating the toy held tight in the child's small hands. The girl looked down at it quickly before nodding, still wide-eyed. "What's her name?"

"Kathy…" The little girl relaxed at this point, the conversation being in an area of relative norm. "She's my best friend." John could almost see Sherlock physically restrain himself from making a smart comment.

"Lovely. She looks a lot like my friend here." He pulled the killer's doll from his coat, presenting it to the child, who gasped at its appearance.

"Wow! She's so new! How'd you get her?"

"I found her."

"Oh, I thought Mr. Aberknacky was back…" Perplexed by her sudden sadness, Sherlock pressed on.

"Where did he go?"

"Don't know. Mama said he went away for a long time, but he left all of his toys in his shop. They must be so lonely…"

"Where is his shop?"

"Oh, down close to the bad part of the city, near all the factories. Closer to the docks though, on Gilfred Street. Mama says I'm not to go there alone cause of bad people and loose diguits." She answered sweetly. Sherlock gave a bright smile, one which she returned easily. He produced the small sack of chocolate he had purchased earlier, and pressed it neatly into one of her hands with a quiet thanks. "Thank you!" She nearly squealed, giving him a peck on the cheek before rushing off, most likely to find her mother.

"You seem good with children." John commented from amusement as Sherlock stood, wiping his cheek in a somewhat disgusted manner.

"It seems our destination is in the outer reaches of the city." He began to lead John away, ignoring his earlier comment. With no carriages in service due to the congested streets, they were forced to walk to the doll shop, passing through the roads at a brisk pace. With the animals gone, food stands were being erected in their place, selling cheap desserts and filling meals at inflated prices. Older women and their young children ran these temporary businesses, with their eldest daughters all dressed up in front, tempting would be customers with their words and seductive looks. It was the lead into the contest to be held later that evening, before the dances and skyfires. Ten young single women would be pulled from the crowds and places before the captive audience as they judged the girls on their looks alone. The winner would received a hefty sum of money and the chance to be wooed by many suitors. It perhaps the simplistic way of receiving attention for knotting.

The factory district was always covered in a thick fog produced from the smoke of the smelters inside. Hammers falling, metal screeching, stones grinding, and the occasional yelp of pain were common noises among the ominous buildings, driving away most gawkers with their ear grating sounds. Few civilians accompanied Sherlock and John among the lower city district as they made their way just past the factories. Workers hobbling home from a long festival shift, their fingers and faces black from soot and bruises, were mixed with the few lost tourists who'd taken a few too many wrong turns from the city center. An owner-less diguit scampered by, yipping as its dirty fur swayed from its weak movement while a homeless man coughed from his filthy corner of the street. It was the part of Gueir many people could ignore, and yet if they were not ignoring it, they were likely living it.

Just past the line of factories was the living part of the lower district, made mostly of the laborers and minor blacksmiths. The dilapidated buildings became a mindless blur among the pocked streets and run-down fences. An ever-present gloom hung among the city blocks, the run-off from the massive forges filling the air with a stagnant smoke that pressed heavily along the lungs, making each breath a physical effort. It didn't take much figure that the hazardous fumes were what contributed to Gueir's low life expectancy, seeing how the majority of the population lived in these un-safe conditions. A small worry in the back of John's mind whenever he passed through the area, since any effort to gain help from the government to make the conditions healthier was shot down before it could even be considered.

Upon finding the shop among the nearly identical old buildings, Sherlock immediately became intrigued, stopping John before they found a way inside. "Note how the local birds avoid the vicinity." Peering around, there seemed to be a distinct lack of the curious golden birds. In fact, the whole street seemed devoid of any life save for Sherlock and himself. It was an ominous sensation that ran through him and Sherlock stepped forward to the door.

The shop before them was clearly in disuse with a thick layer of dust lining every surface as he and Sherlock glanced inside. Long lines were cut through the coating, showing the mindless pacing of some individual squatting in the abandoned shop. Shelves and shelves of dolls lines the walls, each of different stock and appearance, yet the same blue stones shone for eyes, set in each lifeless face. A small rack of long puppets was near the corner, most of them leering jesters, their lengthy limbs hung to the floor as they grinned evermore towards the wood beneath them.

"What are we going to do?" John asked as Sherlock examined the door. He turned the knob and it creaked open easily. "Sherlock!" He hissed as the man stepped over the threshold. We can't just walk in!"

"We're being expected. The person inside is most likely weak from her last murdering escapade, so not much of a fight is to be expected. Though we should be cautious in case her mind has crumpled already. Either way…" He trailed off and John followed him inside with a huff. There was silence in the room, save for the light steps of their feet and the rustle of clothes and feathers. Sherlock's wings were raised ever so slightly, stretched half their length as they carefully maneuvered past the watching toys. A hall could be seen between two sets of shelving, a single glass candle lit near the middle, beckoning them. It all seemed too easy to John, his instincts over-riding Sherlock's assurances.

A slight buzz began to make itself known in John's ears as they passed a rather sturdy support beam, though the origin was unrecognizable from just the sound. It made his spine tingle in anxiety yet he choose to ignore it. Sherlock froze, however, wings fully erect and body tensed while his pale eyes widened. "John, I fear I've made a rather terrible miscalculation. You need to leave." His voice was rushed and filled with fear as he pulled John's revolver from his coat pocket, much to the doctor's bemusement.

"What? I'm not leaving you here! Why did you bring-?"

"You do not understand!" He was nearly trying to pull John out of the darkened store, yet the doctor resisted, moving away.

"I'm not-" The floor beneath him gave way to something thick yet most assuredly liquid. He fell with a short yell, grabbing onto the splintering floorboards just in time to keep himself from going under. Sherlock was by his side in moment, the revolver clattering elsewhere as he grabbed under the man's arms, attempting to haul him up. It would've succeeded save for a strong hand held fast to John's right leg from inside the dark liquid, pulling him down. He held fast to the floorboards, as Sherlock struggled to bring him up.

"You should've listened!" He hissed as John began to lift from the hole. He felt the white hot sensation of something clawing into his ankle and calf, thick talons digging into his flesh as it held fast to his body.

"Just get me out of here!" He yelled, pain throbbing through his leg. Their combined effort was working. He felt the grip slipping as he was being dragged farther and farther onto solid land. When his thighs passed onto the floorboards, Sherlock was thrown away by some invisible force, sending him to the opposite side of the room. "Sherlock!" The hand was back on his leg, yanking hard with a renewed effort. He scrambled to grip something more solid than the ground, the support pole proving adequate as he struggled against his captor. He kicked out when a high pitched laughter shot through the store, foot landing on nothing but the thick liquid.

Dolls and puppets of all varieties began to twitch, their movements jerky as they rose from their stands and shelves, falling to the floor before rising quickly to their tiny shoed feet. John watched in horror as they began to pin Sherlock under their collective numbers. He put up a valiant effort, brushing them aside with a snarl with his wings beating any back, yet something changed in their weight for his struggling worsened, only to be stopped altogether when a jester puppet, arms long and sinuous, wrapped around Sherlock's neck from behind. The winged man and the cloth puppet dropped like a stone, effectively pinned.

There was a crash, and from the hallway arose a figure, glass candles lighting in her wake. Her face was a violent glee as she approached John who held fast to his pole. The woman was nothing of what he expected in his mind. She was bald, as Sherlock had said, but her eyes were dead, devoid of any real sanity, body so lithe, her clothes swamped her being. He wondered how she didn't crumble from each step. She stood before John now, bone thin fingers trailing on his shaking arms as her head cocked to the side abruptly.

"Leading the innocent to slaughter." Her voice was cracked and raw, as though she had spent the last few hours screaming at the top of her lungs. "I would worry, but you're trapped!" She let out a bark of laughter, flitting away to appear before Sherlock. The grip on his leg strengthened, pulling his arms taut as his fingers tightened around the pole with as much effort as he could muster. "And you! A fitting sacrifice. I'm sure my…employer…would be more than happy to have you... Though you are broken. Does not matter. Works all the same. Exemian needed, and the position is fulfilled. Anarchy to come if a foreigner is found dead!"

She moved to straddle Sherlock's abdomen, the dolls shuffling away so she could fit. "I don't like to kill. It hurts…makes me think…bad thoughts. I wanted you to end it…but they figured me out. Said if you don't die, so many more will…" She trailed off, bony hand scratching at Sherlock's chest, his wings beating weakly. Sherlock whispered something harshly in his native tongue that caused the woman to freeze. She snarled, pulling a seven inch blade from her belt, its wicked edges glinting in the low light.

"Do not distract me!" She raised it above her head, dead eyes wide and mad. John felt the pull on him tighten even further, and he frantically searched for anything to help, every muscles protesting to his demands to stay above ground. The smooth metal of the revolver caught his eye. He pulled himself tighter around the pole, body weakening with every effort, his shoulder screaming from it, as he used his right hand to try and grasp the weapon. He could just reach it with his fingertips, if only he could gain a few more centimeters…

Sherlock was fighting against the jester's hold, still ushering quiet words to the woman pressing a knife to his throat. "No. You're lying! Like all the others! I kill you, I go home!" She laughed again, a high pitched shriek as she raised the blade high over her head. Her white thin lips cut into her face in a mocking satire of a smile. "One for the heart, and two for the trees. The armies will come but they all fall to the blade of our(4)-!" Her arms began to descend and someone uttered a strangled shout…

There was two shots, and John hadn't realized that he had grabbed the revolver until the blade clattered to the floor near Sherlock's side, the woman clutching her now bleeding side with shocked eyes. She stood, stumbling away as the blood bloomed through her white shirt, and the grip on John's leg began to weaken as the dolls holding Sherlock to floor did the same, their weight returning to normal. The Outska swayed, groaning, eyes blinking in pain while she choked on her own breath. Sherlock struggled to his own feet and John managed to pull himself from the hole, looking back as he watched it seal up once his foot left the thick liquid. He was covered from the waist down in a dark mud, his clothes stained from it.

"Stay back!" The woman hissed, her hand waving weakly towards Sherlock who was approaching her. A few of the toys twitched, yet they moved no more after that.

"I can help." Sherlock voice was raspy from the choke-hold left off from the jester. "Just tell me your captor's name."

"I said back!" She fell to her knees, coughing up blood onto the wooden floor. Sherlock crouched before her and she didn't fight the grip on her shoulder.

"Tell me your employer's name. I can stop him, save all those people."

"Forget them! I wa-… I want him dead." The life was back in her black eyes, glaring at Sherlock in hatred as she swayed. Sherlock nodded fervently to this, coaxing the words out as she wheezed for breath. "He's Mori-…Moriarty. A se-…a se…" She crumpled onto her side with a final groan, body giving in to the blood loss gushing from her side. With the woman dead, John collapsed himself, arms turning to gelatin and shoulder nearly blinding him with pain. Sherlock was by his side in a second, crouching by him.

"Are you alright?" He cleared his throat and began pulling up John's right pant leg with a passionate fervor.

"I'm fine, Sherlock." He weakly tried to pull away, but he was exhausted from the effort to not drown. The man moved away momentarily only to come back with a glass candle, holding it carefully over his calf. John could see bruises forming on his lean pale neck and hands from the toys' grip. There were long gashes, deep in John's skin, bleeding steadily and mixing with the mud still caked on his leg. "Oruik, what had me?"

"A representation of her psyche. As stated earlier," He pulled off the dress from a doll, ripping it into strips to tie around John's wounds. "Outska reform reality. She needed you taken care of, thus the instant pool under your feet and something strong enough to pull you under. She needed me pinned, and having expended enough energy on you, she used the dolls on me, increasing their weight to a suitable amount so I couldn't fight them all off." Sherlock pulled John to his feet, supporting him when he began to fall.

They were seated on a bench just outside the revelry of the city square, basking in the cool night as they watched the drunken crowd hoot and call out to the woman upon the stages. It had taken three hours for the processing stitching of John's legs to get over with. Sherlock had allowed Lestrade to take all of the credit, so long at the bluecoat contacted him for further cases, especially any involving foreigners. It was blackmail of the nicest kind, one which Lestrade gratefully agreed too.

Afterwards, they had been released to enjoy the rest of the festival, though with a bandaged leg, the excitement was a little subdued. They had found their seating when Sherlock had stated he wanted to watch the remainder of the festivities. John stayed behind with the winged man, decidedly not too keen on staying alone for the rest of the night, despite his exhaustion. Sherlock seemed calm, more content than he had in days, sitting peacefully next to John, content to watch the activities from afar.

"Why did she need you?" He asked after some time of sitting in silence.

"Finding a dead Exemian by the hands of an uncatchable murderer would surely raise the public into a panic, traveling to the government officials. If the woman's owner's company was larger than merely faulting loans, they would need easier access to Trias, and if the citizens and leaders are worrying over something deadly enough to kill an Exemian already in the city, they would have to lessen guard over the rifts, transferring them to the city instead and allowing simpler travel for more unsavory purposes."

"We have an army."

"Yes, in the Southern Lands, beating back Ungar invasions. Nothing can be taken from that if they are to succeed in keeping the over-zealous mages taking over the territory." Before them, the crowd was calming, for the announcements were being made of the winning woman. Soon, the orchestra would take the stage and the dances would begin, winding down the night until the sky fires bloomed above their heads, illuminating the city with an array of bright colors and fantastic sound. Its purpose was two-fold, one to entertain, and another to push the Nazzers away.

While they watched with mild interest as the beautiful winner was paraded before the exuberant crowd, a breeze rolled in through the streets, playing with the hanging paper candles and vegetation on the stone walls. John shivered in its wake, his clothes still somewhat wet from his mishap earlier. Sherlock stretched his uppermost right wing over John's back, letting it rest lightly across his shoulders. Too exhausted to bat it away, John reveled in the warmth the limb produced, the soft plumage tickling his skin gently. Couples began to pair off as the musical group found its way on to the stage, a juggler entertaining the crowd during the short intermission between events. The thought of dancing made John's leg twinge painfully under the haze of medication the doctors had forced him to take for fear of infection.

Sherlock shuffled closer, clearing his throat just as music, light and airy, filled the streets, laughter dying down as people began to sway elegantly to the music. "I wanted to apologize for before." John had to look at him at this. The man was watching John closely, fingers fidgeting in his lap.

"It's fine." John replied truthfully. "Better that I was there to keep you from being strewn across the shop floor." There was a pause where neither said a word, Sherlock's eyes searching his before the man leaned forward quickly, pressing their lips together. The touch was chaste, brief, yet it seemed to stretch for eons before the winged man pulled himself back.

"Thank you, for that." He stood, holding a hand out to help John to his feet, who was still trying to pull himself back to the present as his lips tingled and he fought the rather sudden need to pull Sherlock back for another kiss.

"I, uh. Yeah." He grabbed Sherlock's hand, getting up gently as his leg and shoulder protested to the movement. Putting an arm around his waist, Sherlock led him slowly home, chatting all the while about dinner and possible further work with the bluecoats, insulting them all the while as John decidedly hoped that was the last show of affection the man currently holding onto him was going to give. He didn't think his sanity could take it.

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><p>1- Slavery is legal in many different realms, with many different laws and restrictions in some places, such as Exemia, or none what so ever. Due to this, starting a slaving company can be a very lucrative and highly illegal occupation, depending on where your selling. Most companies respect the laws of various realms, though a few very large ones go out of their way to kidnap innocent civilians in the name of profit.<p>

2- What he's referring to is a throwback to a common practice in Exemia when Outska hunting was legal. A very dark mark in the realm's history, Outska used to be thought of as monsters for their rather extensive reality changing abilities, and there was a movement to eradicate them. Since after a certain age, the people become virtually immortal, they would look for children after puberty who showed the signs of being an Outska (loosing hair being the major clue). People wanting to helped the oppressed would put a toy of some sort on their front porch to allow older Outskas know that a child was in the home in need of saving.

3- In Exemia, when someone is deemed insane, they are generally killed for the safety of the public. Now this may sound horrible, but when one has fantastic magical abilities, it is generally in the best interest of everyone to take out someone with the potential to lose control of those powers. In the realm, when suspected of insanity befitting ending their life, ten witnesses must testify, saying they are truly no longer in control of their mind before the person is executed painlessly in their sleep.

4- The words she's quoting here is a part of an old nursery rhyme in Elkieron culture that stems from one of the bloodiest battles in Exemian history between Dekins and Elkierons. The Dekins had marched to take over the forest dwelling people's capital city, but were ambushed in the unfamiliar territory, leading to thousands of deaths.

Hope you liked this chapter! Any questions, please ask. If I know I will not be explaining them in the coming chapters, I will answer them. Thank you for reading and please review!


	10. Chapter 9: Twofold Path

**Author's Note:** This chapter was the most difficult thing I've ever had to write for absolutely no reason at all. It was like my brain went out to lunch for two weeks, leaving my hands to do all the writing, and they don't know what the fuck they're doing, now do they? I re-wrote this five times before essentially giving up, and here it is. Chapter up ahead is confusing, I'll admit, but the next one is more straightforward, I promise. Thank you for all reviews! Enjoy.

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><p><strong>Chapter 9: Twofold Path<br>**

John let out a loud grunt as he landed heavily onto a gratuitous pile of pillows, his bad shoulder bursting into pain despite his soft landing. There was a tremendous roar that sounded through his ringing ears as John rolled away just in time to avoid the muscular furry arm of Flopsy, the factory owner's daughter's thieving illegal pet.

It had been three weeks since Sherlock and he had stopped the murderous Outska and ever since then, crime had been popping up in the most unusual of places. This was Sherlock's fourth case, starting out simply with Lestrade coming to him when several higher class citizen's had awoken to their private gardens mauled by some unknown culprit. The plunderer had ripped through the steel fences around the vegetation, devastated all manner of plants, ruining thousands of coin worth of property in the process, and then left without a trace. Or so it seemed to all but Sherlock.

With his near psychic abilities, the man had deduced the criminal from a minute tuft of fur and a single footprint leading them to the owner of five major smithing factories, a Mr. Kintsworth. Kintsworth's daughter, a tiny little monster of a girl, had demanded a unique pet from her father in order to be 'better than all the other rich girls'. Tormented by his child's rather loud requests, he had found himself at the shop of a rather shady pet merchant who in turn convinced him to buy a foreign creature, which at the time had 'looked like a small ball of fur with remarkably long ears', as stated by the flustered Kintsworth. Delighted by the adorable creature, his daughter and the furball had left the factory owner in peace for all of ten days.

Unfortunately, as Sherlock had haughtily explained, Flopsy was an extremely illegal mammal from the realm of Alternic, with a nasty habit of growing ten times its size once it reaches sexual maturity along with gaining massive strength and a seemingly endless hunger. It was a common trick for illicit pet dealers to pull on unsuspecting buyers, feigning ignorance when asked to take back the monstrosity the customer now owned, which Sherlock pointed out the desperate man had fantastically played right into.

John rose unsteadily to his feet as the massive animal bucked and slammed itself into the hallway wall, screeching in anger. He looked for Sherlock desperately, his blood running cold when he saw the man clinging to the meaty neck of Flopsy as it rampaged through the tight space, desperate to shake Sherlock from its being. Quick to grab his revolver, which John had to buy new projectiles in lieu of his flatmate's new hobby, he aimed it carefully at the creature's snarling mouth.

"Put it down, John and cover your ears!" Sherlock called from Flopsy's neck, stabbing a syringe into its tan furry hide.

"Wher-?" He started, but an ear piercing howl rang out from the depths of Flopsy, and John understood quickly the reason for covering his ears. The glass candles in the room shattered as the beast shook its great head, swaying as whatever drug in its system took effect. Sherlock jumped down from its back just in time for Flopsy to come crashing to the floorboards, letting out a final groan in a tremendous gush of hot air, smelling of rotting vegetables and wet animal. Its breathing began to even as its eyes closed and Flopsy moved no more save for the even rise and fall of its massive side.

Sherlock stepped carefully over its massive limbs, his wings raised high in pride of himself, and their onyx plumage puffed out enough for John to see the gold inter-weaving. From a door near the end of the hall on the opposite end, Mr. Kintsworth, his maid, and his daughter peaked out to see the aftermath of Flopsy's little jaunt.

"Daddy, they've killed my Flopsy!" The daughter was outraged, and the father began his hardest to soothe her. John paid them little mind as he glared openly at Sherlock, whose expression of triumph turned to one of confusion as his feathered appendages deflated.

"How much of my meticyndlin did you use on that thing?" John asked, almost seething, his arms crossed over his chest._**  
><strong>_

"Haven't a clue what you're talking about."

"Don't give me that. Do you have any idea how much that costs per ounce?"

"The creature was large, therefore all of the tranquilizer was needed in order to control it. I will get you some more." He seemed to promised, putting a reassuring hand to John's shoulder. Their mutual gaze lasted a moment too long for John's comfort, only to be broken by Mr. Kintsworth, bumbling about money and keeping this 'quiet'. Unfortunately for him, Sherlock was a man with little interest in monetary value, and both Kintsworth and Flopsy were carted away to be jailed or shipped back to their home realm, respectively.

Glowing from completing the case, Sherlock led them home, hand placed firmly on John's back as they moved about the quiet late afternoon streets, and fingers drumming lightly on his knee when they were seated in the rickety yusuei-drawn carriage. John said nothing of it for the most part, having resigned himself to quietly accepting the new found affection placed upon his person since Mid-Sing.

It had started off slowly. A small touch to the shoulder here, standing just shy of appropriate here began the abrupt turning of their relationship. A hand would inexplicably find its way to John's knee if they were sitting anywhere near each other during the mornings, and in the evenings, Sherlock almost gravitated around him if he was in the flat, never straying too far away if Lestrade didn't need him.

While John made tea, the other man would stand quite close to his side, jabbering on and on about his day. If John decided to sit on the couch, Sherlock would be there, lying with his head quite close to the doctor's thigh. Experiments were still restricted into the kitchen, though their use was less now due to the consulting job as Sherlock dubbed it, though somehow, he would wiggle a few less explosive ones into the sitting room if John was relaxing there. In public, nothing changed really, thankfully, save for those small unnecessary touches, such as a hand on his lower back when Sherlock pointed something out, or a few fingers on his wrist to pull him in the right direction. It was tentative, so close to intimate with still being in the bounds of platonic.

At first, he tried to ignore it, allowing the small touches to continue, the new closeness to thrive. He couldn't deny he enjoyed it, though each instance made him quake with a small anxiety. John knew there was only one direction this could go if he didn't stop it, but he didn't know if he could. He didn't exactly want to and he could still delude himself that nothing was too come of this, that each unclear moment, when he would catch Sherlock's eye for just a moment too long, was nothing more than another part of their friendship because nothing else had changed. The man was still infuriating as ever, distant most of the time and entirely too strange for the rest.

Of course, as time went on, the hand on his knee would move just a bit further up his thigh, his closeness in the kitchen escalated as he would peer over John's shoulder, nearly pressed up behind him, and on the sofa, his head found its way onto John's leg as he lay mulling things over. His delusion weakening by the day, John still said nothing, stoically allowing things to progress. The affections contented him, excited him, like a child seeing how much he could get away with before getting caught. He caught himself more than once leaning in to a caress, or even going to give one of his own. He fought hard against the need to reciprocate the new physicality, despite his yearning for it.

Tonight was no different of course, and John wondered where it might be leading to, but the silence on his part needed to end. He had been on the sofa, immersed in the daily news for a small article had popped up on Sherlock's third case, in which they found the location of a strange disappearance involving an giant woman, a young boy, and a veritable trail of baked goods. The writer praised Lestrade on his victory, and John nearly laughed when he recalled the hopeless expression on the bluecoat's face when he had approached Sherlock and John.

Reading the rather botched version of their adventure two weeks ago, John hadn't noticed Sherlock approaching until he had a lap full of the winged man's head. Startled by the sudden attention, he looked down to see that Sherlock had curled up next to him, placing his head upon John's thighs, facing his stomach. His wings flapped restlessly as he settled in, and John felt warmth begin to spread as the man finally stilled.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Resting. I would've assumed that was plainly obvious."

"Right, no. Get up." Sherlock appeared confused, face a mask yet his wings perked up in inquiry, by John's sudden outburst, though he surprisingly obeyed. "Why the sudden need for touching?" The limbs lowered, as Sherlock's eyes widened. "I don't know how relationships work in Exemia but-"

"No." Sherlock shook his head, getting to his feet. "I've…I've made a mistake." He went to leave yet John caught him by the wrist, pinning him with a glare of his own.

"No, you're not running off to hide in your nest." When Sherlock did not correct him, John realized something was not in the norm. "What's going on with you? You've been strange lately."

"It's nothing of your concern. I have it under control. Now if you please…" He assured through gritted teeth as he yanked his arm away, beginning a swift pace towards his room. Stunned momentarily, John was quick to follow, stopping him once more in the hallway. "Leave it alone, John." He warned, trying to appear intimidating with his wings stretched out and raised high, though the doctor could hardly be bothered by it.

"I want to know. You can't just damn well act like a nutter and then expect me to let it go." They were standing quite close, John having pinned Sherlock with a hand to his shoulder. The winged man was avoiding his gaze, uncomfortable with John's demands, though he didn't struggle against his grip. "Just tell me what's going on. I am your doctor after all."

"If left ignored-"

"I'll ask Mycroft if you don't." It was a real threat, and Sherlock understood, taking in a breath before looking at John finally, a mixture of emotion going through his eyes as the careful mask he held in place began to crack. There was something juvenile in it, as if he couldn't cope with plethora of different emotions going on. His lips were pursed, his brain trying to place exactly what to say here. It was odd, the longer they stayed in this close proximity, the more pungent the scent that had found itself attached to Sherlock at odd intervals became. It's exotic flavor seemed to seep into John's senses, clouding his thoughts ever so seductively, the world turning slowly into a very warm place.

Sherlock watched him curiously as a fever began low in his stomach, creeping through his body. The winged man's eyes widened, comprehension blooming on his eyes just as John's knees began to give out, arousal blooming the more he was in contact with the odd perfume. He blinked rapidly, fighting back the need to do…something. He didn't know what, but his skin itched for it, whatever it was.

"What is this?" John gasped out, as Sherlock helped him sit upon the floor, back resting on wall. Where the man touched him, even with the layer of clothing, it blossomed into a kind of pleasure, and John could see where this might lead. Sherlock disappeared for a moment while John tried to control his breathing, as he began to quiver from the lust in his veins. It seemed to calm, and soon there was much more bitter smell in his nose, clearing his mind with the same effect as a slap to the face. Everything seemed to wash away, though his body still shook at the rapid change.

"Mixture of mortal realm peppermint oil and Exemian dirr extract." Sherlock murmured, pressing it into John's hands once he'd capped it. "Just in case." John murmured a thanks, covering his eyes with his hand as his senses reassembled themselves. He sneezed a few times, his nostrils stinging from the oil mixture as his eyes began to water slightly. His sinuses felt as though they were on fire, but this effect was much preferred.

Sherlock was hovering close, nearly switching in a silent anxiety, wings fluttering ever so slightly. John wanted to reach out and calm him in some way, yet he merely sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and blinking a few times.

"Now that you've destroyed my sense of smell, could you please tell me what all of that was about?" Sherlock opened his mouth the retort yet John interrupted him before he could. "You owe me that much. Gods know you do."

Sherlock scowled suddenly, rolling his eyes and glaring, much to John's bemusement. "I've stated before that it is of none of your concern. It is being taken care of, and it would be best for you to forget about this little venture." Angered by his companions stubbornness, John stood quickly, nodding to himself while matching Sherlock's searing stare with one of his own.

"Right." He turned, marching down the hall, only to have Sherlock calling after, intrigued by his new route.

"Where are you going?" He asked when John reached to door to leave.

"Out. I need some air." With that, it was a jaunt down the stairs and out the front door into the warm night. Save for the few passing carriages clacking and sputtering loudly by, the streets were unusually quiet, with few wayward souls making their way through Gueir. A para bird alighted itself by a bench as John passed, watching him go with mild interest as it cooed softly, only to be chased away by a more territorial bird. John observed their squabble in a disinterested way, feet carrying him slowly to gods knew where.

He'd grown up on these streets, not Baker Street specifically, but in Gueir, in this massive city surrounded constantly by metal and stone, with only the barest hint of greenery intermixed. Despite this, he assumed in the few months Sherlock had spent hounding the pathways that the winged man knew the twists and turns much better than John ever could, though he wondered if it might be a burden to always know where one was going. John enjoyed walks among the city which entailed getting lost for a brief time, allowing himself to meditate on the steady steps and the noise of the civilization around him.

The calming effect of losing one's self in the process of moving without a destination allowed John to forget the troubles of the day, and focus solely on how his feet contacted with the ground or how the world continued to whir past him as he strode without purpose or care. He did this now, not knowing where he might end up yet the anger and frustration at Sherlock pulled him from his usual state of reflection. He grumbled internally at the insufferable man he'd left in the flat, wondering briefly if he might be pouting on the sofa with violin in hand, or if he'd sulked to his nest, tenaciously silent and unwilling to move until something interesting pulled him from his black mood. He almost expected the man to be following him down the cracked sidewalk, and glanced continuously over his shoulder in case the opportunity arose to confront him. The streets remained clean of feathered foreigners and John pressed on.

Whatever was happening, John had decided, was his business to understand. If it affected him in such a way, these odd scents and Sherlock's own presence, then he was a participant in whatever thing had interwoven itself between them, Exemian customs be damned. The winged man's hesitance and adamant approach to leave out details was nothing new, yet the doctor felt this was different. He needed to know, had every right to, yet how does one pry an explanation from the icy grip of Sherlock's relentless hold?

The opportunity arose forty minutes into his heedless jaunt through the dark night. He found himself in the park, a sudden change from the brown and grey as he moved into the green soft fields interrupted by the pathways. A small pond made up the center, with few aquatic diving birds skimming the surface in the late evening, its watery edges dotted with sitting benches, on which John found himself seated, mind whirring as he fought with need to yell to the heavens. Placing his head between his hands, he did not hear the quiet footsteps as they approached until he was being addressed by a smooth, cool voice.

"I hope I'm not disturbing your park seat musings." The drawl of Mycroft caused John's head to whip around fast enough to cause a crick in his neck for the next week. The elder Holmes stood there, leaning on his umbrella, staring down at John with what might have been an attempt at sympathy, but mostly just made the man look like he thought John as a mildly interesting specimen. "Frustrating night, I suspect."

"How-, never mind." John had wanted to ask how Mycroft had found him, yet the answer was probably more frightening than he needed. Taking a seat without any invitation, Mycroft settled down easily, and for a moment John wondered if the ambassador could feel his wings against the metal bench even though they seemed hidden from reality. "What it is, Mycroft? I've had to deal with one Holmes tonight, and I don't actually feel like being in the company of another."

"While I can see that is the case, I was rather hoping to shed some light on his and yours current predicament." John's expression was skeptical, but he was curious enough to bite. There was little harm to be done it, either way.

"Go on then. Enlighten me."

"Sherlock feels the need to inform you of nothing, not because he is being stubborn, as you might believe. He is frightened. My brother has finally found himself in a situation he cannot worm himself out of with logic or sheer will, and if he indulges you in the reality of his situation, which is truly both of yours, he fears he may lose you in the process."

"What do you mean?"

"As I assume you know, Sherlock is not a man intended for the emotional side, and unfortunately the nature of the issue delves completely into the unfamiliar territory." He paused to give John a very long and exhausted look, the same 'almost-sympathy-but-not-quite' expression interlaced his features. "He is, in your brunt terms, falling in love with you." There was another pause in which John let this sink in, and he nearly laughed at the hysterical idea.

"No." He said, shaking his head, disbelieving. Mycroft raised an eyebrow in inquiry. "He doesn't…do that. He's said it himself."

"And yet for the first time in twelve annuals, he's confided in me for some sort of support. Now, he may have an inclination to step away from the intimate side of socialization, yet when he decides to seek me out personally for help on a subject, I would be one to believe it is a very real issue." It finally hit what Mycroft was saying. It wasn't some elaborate hoax. He thought back to the conversation he had overheard, the clear distress in Sherlock's voice as he spoke begrudgingly with his brother. "What might that mean?"

John knew perfectly well, stunned into a sort of frozen silence. In the back of his mind, he had been acknowledging these things, taking them in and giving ulterior explanations in order to feed his Guier bred ignorance. A part of his was elated at the words, content to hear that the man held some form of affection toward him. He almost felt like a child again, finding a girl glancing shyly to him with his heart speeding at the thought she might want to talk to him. Save this wasn't an innocent education side affection, and he was dealing with something much more consequential. The thought alone sobered him from his musings to find Mycroft watching him closely.

"O-oh." He replied lamely, unsure of what to say. It was a war zone in his head, two sides of emotions battling for grounds, leaving his tongue thick and thoughts hazy.

"I must inform you that due to the ramifications of possible courtship between the two of you has led Sherlock to decide his immediate departure to Exemia once his prosthetics have been equipped and are properly-"

"What?" John interjected, shifting smoothly from his emotional battle back to the issue on hand.

"Both of us believe it to be in the best interests for the two of you if the temptation was removed and a normal life could be resumed before a more permanent bond could be implemented."

"Permanent(1)?"

"Relationships for Exemians take on a more lasting form than a ceremony indicted by a priest. It is written in chemicals and down to the very core of the individual, instead of written on paper. Once realized, it can last for decades, and prying the two apart is near impossible without catastrophic mental pain being involved. It would be best to avoid such a thing with the state that things are in at the moment, wouldn't you say?"

"And I don't get a say in this whatsoever?" John was seething, not having to be a genius to figure out the answer.

"A third party on the matter muddies the issue. It would be beneficial if-"

"No. This concerns me, and I'll be stoned before I let either of you leave me out of this. So damn you." He stood up abruptly and began to walk away, for the second time that night angry beyond words, though this time he was headed to his flat. He had little idea of what his plan might entail, but it was certainly a better one than listening to Mycroft anymore. Inexplicably, the ambassador appeared out of thin air just before him, making John stumbled ever so slightly back, though he soon regained his footing, remaining firm, not allowing the bemusement at Mycroft's instantaneous movements show upon his face(2).

"I strongly warn against any actions that might heed my brother from returning to Exemia. This solution benefits the both of you and you are not thinking clearly."

"Move." John snapped, knowing in a fight, he'd most likely be outmatched by whatever Mycroft had hidden up his sleeve. He tried to step around, yet Mycroft did his trick, blocking the path again. "What is it with you? Why do you want him back so badly?"

"It matters not, but I will remind you that if any curious officials catch wind of any sort of scandal happening in your flat, I personally will not do anything to deter them." John opened his mouth to retort, yet within a blink of his eye, Mycroft had gone, disappeared into thin air as if he was never even there. Too angry to be honestly surprised, he began his walk home, taking the time to plan out what he might say to Sherlock when he arrived. He still did not fully understand what was going on, but he'd be damned if he let Mycroft sway his decisions.

It was the reasonable choice, the better choice to swallow his feelings, whatever they may be, and say goodbye to Sherlock once the time came, but they pulled at him. The thought of never seeing the man again was a painful one, and he was ready to do whatever it might take to not allow it to happen.

John found Sherlock with his knees drawn up, wings cocooning himself upon the doctor's chair, surprisingly. He was staring absently at the window beyond, seemingly vacant, yet John knew his mind was whirring with whatever thoughts he may be having. Surrounded by the glossy feathers in the untidy room, the man appeared out of place, unreal as if a figure from a dream or a piece of art.

"Mycroft's been filling your head with all sorts of things." He says as John enters, not bothering to glance at the doctor, who merely nodded, deciding that the customary questions of 'how' where unnecessary at the moment. He strode over to where Sherlock sat apprehensively, his earlier drive having dissipated slightly upon the walk back. He chastised himself for not taking a carriage. A quick look around, and he noted that the amount of disarray had been doubled at least in the two hours he had been away with papers strewn about from wing beats and a new acid burns in the carpet.

Sherlock watched him wearily, pale eyes glued to the doctor as he sat in the chair opposite him. There was a long moment of silence as they merely stared at each other, waiting for someone to speak. It was awkward at best and there was a second where John felt to need to walk out again, yet he stayed firm, knowing this had to happen or it never would. He was winding himself to speak, but was beaten to the punch.

"You're wondering what my reasoning is for my behavior."

"That's one way of putting it."

"It's for purely selfish reasons. Getting away from you specifically will help clear my mind." He assured, and John had to wince at his wording.

"What if I were willing to try this... a relationship with you." John asked. He kept his gaze steady, even when Sherlock's eyes widen in surprise, wings moving ever so slightly in intrigue.

"You don't try something like this, hoping to back out. Once allowed to unfold, it doesn't allow for one member to back out because it doesn't fit them(3)." He snapped defensively, trying to push the doctor away, yet the expression on John's face must've told him this wasn't a battle he could win, for Sherlock became curious. "You don't want this." He tried, and John shrugged appropriately, hands clasped between his legs as he leaned forward.

"I don't know what I want, but I do know that I'm willing to compromise if it keeps you here. With me." He ended quietly. Sherlock merely stared at him inquisitively for a long moment, as if to try and dissect his certainty.

"I see." The man before him was cautious, though clearly excited by the prospect. Whatever John was telling him silently must have sparked something from Sherlock. "Are you even willing to leave with me if I can find a way for it to happen?" Surprised, John opened his mouth to reply, yet Sherlock cut him short. "I need a yes or a no." There it was: the prospect lain bare before them, and John didn't know what to do. He felt helpless, that war beginning again in his mind as he weighed each side.

To leave with Sherlock was unknown, path with untold excitement and dangers. The time between now and getting out of Trias would be rife with peril and paranoia imagining bluecoats breathing down his neck at every turn, but he might be happy. He wouldn't be bored, or lonely. To have Sherlock leave, however, would put him back where he was eight months ago, except with the raw memory of an exhilarating lifestyle swept away into a rift as he scrambled to find a wife. It would be less than the other option, but safe, assured. A career already in place, a family, and all those things any metal-worker should want that he felt slipping from his desires like sand through a sift. He followed Sherlock into the doll shop, into the path of psychopath and a monster, yet could he journey with the man into a the unknown?

Sherlock watched him silently, before unfurling himself from John's chair, making his way over to the doctor carefully, wings heavy behind him, close to dragging along the floor. That scent hinted the air as the winged man made his way, wafting cleverly into John's senses. He stopped just short of John, peering down at him with an expression of apathy before placing two fingers underneath the doctor's chin, lifting his face ever so. He bent down, placing a soft dry kiss just shy of John's lips.

"You have until my prosthetics are in place." Sherlock murmured gently into his ear before moving away, disappearing in the hall towards his bedroom, leaving John flustered, warm, and still unsure of what to do.

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><p>1- Exemians lives anywhere between 200 to 3000 years depending on what race they are. In Sherlock's case, he could be around for around for about five hundred. Now, the average life-span for a metal-worker man is about fifty-two years, so in the case that John and Sherlock did start a relationship in Trias, it would technically be permanent. Between Exemians, the relationship in which Mycroft is proposing would last between eighty years to indefinitely, again, depending on the races and the strength of the bond.<p>

2- Since metal-workers have a small distrust in supernatural or magical things, and since Mycroft is an ambassador, he would not indulge in these things often (ergo why he keeps his wings hidden). Seeing how he's trying to intimidate John, who is used to Sherlock's shenanigans, and they are in a relatively deserted park, he would be more open about using these little things to gain the upper hand.

3- Much will be explained next chapter, mainly because it didn't fit this one, which is what I struggled with to write in **five times**. So, patience is requested. Though ask questions if needed, and if I am not going to explain later in the story, I will answer them!

Confused? Good. Come back next chapter and I'll have most of it sorted out, which will hopefully be in at least week. Again, apologies for lateness. Please review and thanks for reading!


	11. Chapter 10: Diagonosed

**Author's Note:** Sorry! This is completely my fault. It was spring break, and my birthday happened, so I didn't start this till about three days ago and I busted my ass to get it up tonight. Apologies abound. Anyways, here it is, and I hope you enjoy! Thank you once again for all the reviews. They give me confidence to write these chapters, and a reason to finish each one.

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><p><strong>Chapter 10: Diagnosed<br>**

"Can't believe the traffic today! Took me fifteen minutes to find a-" John stopped his ranting once he realized no one was in the sitting room to hear it. He made a confused noise, sweeping the area once more for the tell-tale signs of Sherlock, yet there was not a feather to be found. He panicked for a moment before fighting down the insane thought that the man had already left for Exemia, despite his lack of replacement wings.

With a determined huff, John made his way to the man's room, expecting to see him hidden beneath his nest, yet the bedding was empty, no long black and gold wings sticking out at odd angles. Curious, John wandered back to the kitchen, vaguely searching for a note he knew wasn't there, expectedly met with the usual clutter. He found himself in the sitting room once more, ready to give up the search, when Sherlock appeared just behind him with his alien ability to move silently.

"Oruik, could you not do that?" John snapped, to Sherlock's amusement. It took him a moment to calm, yet when he did, there was something off about the man before him. "Were you… Were you just in my room?"

"Yes." The answer was straightforward enough that it nearly knocked the doctor off his feet. Sherlock pushed past briskly, wings taught with what John could assume was embarrassment.

"Any reason, specifically?" The man in question stooped to check on a rather disturbing amount of mold contained safely in a glass case, his back to John.

"No."

"Is it because of the-"

"Yes."

"Do I need to clean anything?"

"Of course not." Sherlock hissed, turning on him suddenly. Face softening when he saw the expression of irritated affection on John's face. Sherlock had enough logic to at least act guilty, trying to change the subject. "You arrived home rather early for a six-day." It didn't work, of course.

"Am I going to start rolling around your room as well, or is that just strictly on your side of things?"

"Please…" Sherlock leveled their gazes for a moment before turning away, going over to the kitchen. It had been a struggle to wrestle anything out of the stubborn Exemian when it came to their little 'issue'. His reluctance was set in stone, and John had been chipping at it with as much energy as he felt needed to spare. Mycroft, who had taken a rather sour tone with him, was of no help either, ignoring any requests for information. He was almost borderline rude even, which was nearly as shocking as his new rumpled appearance the last time John had seen the ambassador.

What little John had been able to pry out of Sherlock was helpful to an extent. As far as he could understand, what was happening was a sort of ancient Exemian tradition, backed by their 'energies', which in short forced two people into a long term relationship, regardless of wanting on either side, so long as each was compatible for the other. It reminded him of the arranged knottings in older times, just without the parental influence.

From what Sherlock hinted at, Exemians viewed it as almost a sickness. Each separate race had their own signs and symptoms while under the 'courting phase', as Sherlock had put it mockingly, and if one participant was not of the realm, they were subjected to a less extreme side of things, experiencing something along the lines of common attraction with more deep-seated emotions attached. Sherlock's symptoms were almost animalistic in retrospect, ones in which he appeared to have little control over, such as his pheromones and wandering into John's room for reasons only the gods knew why. From his ruffled feathers and hair, John guessed he had been in John's bed, something about the smell appeasing to him.

As long as they didn't 'connect', as Sherlock had dryly put it, they would be able to reverse any bonding that may have happened unintentionally. Mates were supposed to come together on three separate levels: emotionally, physically, and mentally. Emotionally, had already been cemented between them. Physically, they merely had to avoid having sex and everything should be fine, though with Sherlock's pheromones and John's own craving for physical contact due a complete lack of it, this was becoming difficult.

Connecting mentally had confused him when Sherlock had said it.

"If you were Exemian, it would mean we could essentially know each others thoughts. Being a metal-worker, the empathetic connection will provide a sort of awareness of each other on another level. With a strong enough need, we would be able to influence one another's actions, if necessary for the situation. It's merely a tactic in order to keep both parties close for the length of the relationship. It's hard to find another sexual partner if your kerlaily can feel the intention in your head." Sherlock had explained in a low voice as they tailed a suspicious man through the darkening streets of the lower ring.

"But why for so long? Why force people into a lengthy relationship?"

"The death rate in my home realm is extremely low. When our lifespans began to exceed two hundred years, they needed a way to stop people from having so many children, thus setting up this type of mateship. Back then, it only occurred between two people of the same sex, and the length and strength of it kept either person from having any offspring for eighty plus years. We have the opposite problem your people have, so they needed to force people into it(1). Of course, once connected with one another, both people are relatively happy, so-" He had stopped, their target taking to a swift run through the empty alleyway. He and Sherlock were hot on his tail with their conversation brought to a sudden end.

Trust Exemians to magic their way into creating love for unwilling individuals. What he could infer from Sherlock's agitation that some part of this incomplete connection pained him. The man would never say, but John could safely assume that this was taking a toll on the Exemian, no matter how stoically he refused to say. Physical touch seemed to sooth him, along with stealing John's clothes and rolling about in his room, and though it brought them closer, John was willing to risk it until his decision was made. They were still separate on two accounts, giving them a nice cushion if Sherlock did have to leave without John in tow.

The lead turned into a full-blown slaving operation. Fifteen Farish had been swiped from their camps near the edges of Guier, all tied and stuck in close quarters in qiorn cages, their glittering wings beating weakly when Sherlock and John had appeared to set them free. Three of the slavers had been caught, stuck between a wall and their pursuers. Unfortunately, the other two, whom were Mercans as John found out later, had evaded capture, leaving Sherlock disgruntled.

The Farish were more than grateful to be freed from their binds, buzzing literally in an exhausted contentment, almost overwhelming the doctor with their bright eyes and colorful insect-like wings. One, a thin female with a long pointed nose and yellow skin, was ecstatic enough to pull John into a surprisingly strong, bony embrace. The moment they touched, there was a pang of horrifying jealously and anger that shot through John, nearly buckling him. The woman pulled back, large eyes searching his face in concern.

"Are you okay?" She asked in raspy voice, the other Farish peering their way, yet John's eyes were on Sherlock. His glare would've had the power to melt even the most resilient of substances, attached to the Farish still clinging to John's arms. The winged man must've felt John's gaze, for he ripped his own from the woman, settling on his companion. There was a moment of realization behind his expression, and he quickly shuffled away. "Altorny(2)?"

"Yes, I'm fine." John replied, and the Farish resumed their buzzing, chatting endlessly about their capture while the doctor had no choice but to listen. He and Sherlock stayed until Lestrade came striding in, ushering them quickly out the back before the rest of the bluecoat squad made it to the scene, murmuring a quick thanks to the both of them.

They were on their way back to the flat when John decided to speak up about the strange happenstance.

"What happened back there?" The motorized carriage sputtered beneath them, jolting violently when a wheel hit a particularly deep pothole. Sherlock barely flinched, one hand resting against his lips while the other was stuffed in his pocket. "Does it have to do with the 'thing'?" John tried again once he righted himself.

"Yes. The mental aspect seems to have jumped ahead of schedule."

"How?"

"Usually, all three converge at one time, but our prolonged extension of keeping separate seems to be eliciting an emergency response(3)."

"Meaning…"

"Our situation is rapidly approaching a critical period of unrest." He left it at that, silently watching the buildings roll by, leaving John in silence and his own rolling thoughts.

Once in 221B, Sherlock hastily pulled out his hand from his pocket, shoving the object into John's hands. "Look at this." He nearly dropped it when he saw what was in his palm.

"Oruik, what in the afterworld?" It appeared to be a small amount of skin, dry and smooth, roughly the size of his hand. A translucent white, the skin was scaled like nothing John had seen before. "What is this from?"

"Some sort of reptilian beast, though I can't be sure."

"Where did you get it?"

"One of the desks in the slaver's hideout. It was folded inside this." He produced a note written in a hasty red scrawl, shining on the off-blue of the paper. John could not make out the language, composed of looping symbols, though near the bottom was a crude depiction of an eye, staring out at the reader.

"Can you read that?"

"Yes, it's in the common Mercan dialect, but translation won't be difficult." He moved away for a moment, grabbing a pen and carefully writing the metal-speak. The runes brought an odd sense of familiarity to the situation as John set the piece of skin down, leaning over Sherlock to read the translation.

_Three weeks. Seventeen insects(4). Subject to death upon failure to deliver._

"Seems pretty straightforward, but why the skin? Do you know what it's from?"

"Hard to tell. It was shed at least four months ago, cut with a precise hand. The species could be anything, however. I need more data."

"Do you think it could be Moriarty?" John loathed asking. The man had become almost an obsession to Sherlock as his influence, whatever that might be, began to unravel itself across The Northern Lands. The slavers, smugglers, and illicit merchants were finding their way into the once almost completely sealed off realm. Each rift was guarded heavily, and yet these criminals were still slipping in. Sherlock had begun making a map of sorts in his bedroom, and John had found he would spend hours just staring at it, as if to unravel some sort of puzzle John couldn't see.

"It's a possibility." He picked up the note and skin, heading off to his room without another word.

"Right." John said, collapsing into his chair with a sigh as he rubbed absently at his aching shoulder. With the increased amount of exertion to his old wound, it had begun painfully reminding him of its presence, though he could never actually forget the rather large scar blaring at him from the mirror whenever he walked in front of it half-naked.

Four days later, and the ache had morphed into a sharp jabbing sensation whenever he took in a breath. The reason was unknown, yet the pain was ever-present, enough so that after two hours of trying to relax in his bed, followed by another hour spent in a warm bathtub mixed with a plethora of painkillers landed John in front of the mirror once more, examining the dead flesh, searching for the cause of his discomfort. Nothing could be seen to have changed, yet it throbbed with an angry sort of determination.

Caused by a rogue mage in the Southern Lands sending a twisted remnants of some sort of weaponry straight into him, mashing through bone and muscle like a hammer to glass. What it had been then, compared to now was nothing short of a miracle, yet the radiating scar and permanent damage it left behind were a sad after effect. He had removed the pieces of metal himself, with the fire of battle raging around him. It wasn't the safest decision, but if the enemy sensed the available weakness already embedded in his skin, his chance of survival would've been drastically reduced.

It throbbed painfully at the memory, making him wince as he tried to relax the tense muscle. The medicine he had taken had done little to ease the pressure, but the side-effects made his hands shake and mind race. He let out a frustrated sound, letting his eyes close as he wondered if he should just pull on his clothes and lounge in the sitting room all day, listening to Sherlock move about the area.

"John?" Opening his eyes, he saw Sherlock in the mirror, standing near the doorway with a worried quirk to his wings. John would've jumped in shock, but the painkillers had dulled his reaction time, and he merely sighed. "Your shoulder is hurting again." The bluntness of the statement almost made the doctor laugh, but the muscle took the moment tightened beyond what John thought was possible. It felt as though it might snap his whole left side in two.

He looked back at Sherlock and saw the man holding a hand to his own left shoulder curiously.

"You can feel that?" John asked after a moment when the realization hit him. Sherlock didn't answer, but he could see the affirmation in his wings. "Should we be worried about this?"

"Most likely." Sherlock stepped forward, eyes latched onto John's scar. It was strange, he had never felt self-conscious about the wound, being a doctor and having seen thousands of scars and faults throughout his life. It had seemed the better option when his medical caretakers had talked about removing the whole arm for a replacement prosthetic in order to remove the discomfort. He had obviously refused, enduring the pain instead of opting for a needless amputation. Here, under Sherlock's vibrant observing gaze, he wanted to run from it.

He stood still however, allowing Sherlock to approach, who stopped just before him. There was a moment when they merely watched one another, unsure of the next move, but Sherlock dropped his gaze once more to John's bad shoulder as it flared up again. He reached out, letting just the tips of his fingers touch the warped flesh. John let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, his mind zeroing in on the point of contact. The pain began to ebb away as Sherlock traced the scar, intent on the imaginary outline his touch was creating. John felt his breath hitch as Sherlock stepped ever closer.

The pheromones, thick and enticing, began again, spreading through John's senses. His skin began to prickle, flushing from the combination of Sherlock's touch, proximity, and scent. He itched to draw Sherlock in, touch him, anything. The other man's fingers began to descend from his shoulder, fluttering down his sides as his wings extended toward John. He was almost panting now, Sherlock leaning in closer, breath ghosting across his lips as his free curled under the doctor's chin.

A screech from a carriage outside snapped John from his haze, pushing himself away from Sherlock, covering his mouth and nose. Sherlock snapped out of whatever had him as well, eyes wide and feathered appendages brought tensely to his sides.

"Okay, new rule: We ignore anymore 'mental' things until we get this all sorted out." John stated, suddenly feeling the chill in the air as his shoulder began to ache again.

"Agreed." Sherlock replied, nodding while he refused to look at John. Needless to say, the rest of the afternoon was awkward at best, each trying to keep to themselves and disregard the little pings of emotion bouncing around.

Less than three weeks later, and the surgery was in two hours, but John couldn't find the patient anywhere. John had left his last appointment early in order to round up the disgruntled man and usher him to the ward so they could begin the arduous process. Sherlock was missing from the flat, as John should have suspected when he ran inside to an empty home, and the only clue he had left the doctor was a small note atop the doctor's bed. Frustrated with Sherlock's disappearing act, he picked up the paper, honestly wanting to crumple it into a ball and allow the man to miss his appointment. Instead, he read the scribbled message, smiling at the words written.

_John,_

_City center. Roof of the menagerie. If convenient, meet me there. If inconvenient, meet me there anyways._

_Sherlock_

There was no questioning this, and his grin faded when he realized that an unnecessary trip out of the way was now at hand. He pursed his lips before heading out the door, catching a motorized carriage to the city center. The overcast sky and muggy warmth left off from yesterday's rain made John sticky and uncomfortable, fueling his irritation as they rolled slowly into the heart of Gueir. By the time he stepped out onto the sidewalk, a small amount of sun had begun to peek through and people began to leave their work, intent on heading home or meeting their fellows for a night on the streets. He pushed through the crowds, intent on the menagerie that Sherlock spoke of.

The tall building was pristine, its outside sign boasting of exotic critters and vibrant birds. He hadn't been their since his childhood, remembering the cages of small animals and pots of atmospheric plants. He brushed past the entrance, seeking the side spiraling staircase that led to the roof and Sherlock, whom he had seen perched on the edge, a few doting para birds accompanying him in his sulk. It had come as a shock when John realized how little he tended to look at the roofs of buildings, or even the sky for that matter until Sherlock began spending so much time on them. It was true what they said, metal-workers were fixated with the ground even when there is something amazing in the air above them.

"This may be the final time I need the stairs to gain any sort of height." Sherlock stated when John made it his side, sending the golden birds flying into the city beneath them.

"Yeah, well, you would've been stuck with them for even longer if I hadn't gotten your note."

"I was just enjoying this view for a possible last time. I knew you would turn up eventually."

"I haven't ever before." John pointed out, and Sherlock gave a tight smirk but no verbal answer. "Nervous?" The man scoffed at John's words, continuing his vigilant watch over the streets below.

"Why would I be nervous?" John shrugged, eyeing a rather husky bluecoat chatting up an older woman.

"I dunno. You're getting surgery in less than two hours, and the prosthetics they're placing might not even work, leaving you stuck on the ground. Seems like quite a bit to be anxious about." Sherlock rolled his eyes and his wings flapped in indignation. A group of women passed under them, young and twittering, straightening as they noticed a man watching them with interest, chests popping out and little sway finding its way into their hips. Before, he might've found this enjoyable, attractive, and he still did to some extent, but he felt incredibly removed from the emotion, a mere whisper of what it might've been. He mostly found the scene amusing, and he wondered if it was a side-effect of his and Sherlock's predicament.

"Have you made a decision?" Sherlock asked suddenly, casting his gaze to John. He let the question hang in the air, still watching the women prance away with a detached interest. He didn't need to make up his mind now, though he knew where he was leaning towards, whether it was because of their relationship or his own logic. Sherlock still had to recover from the surgery, and get his new wings to work before any answers had to be given, though time was running short. He spent many nights wondering what if might be like leaving Trias for a new realm, how he and Sherlock might manage until he could obtain a passport to even get to migrate. It was a five year wait, if they could obtain Mycroft's help, and that was assuming the officials didn't lock down his realm travel because of his social inactivity.

On a whim, John grabbed Sherlock's hand, straightening himself so he could place a kiss to his cheek. The skin was cool yet smooth and when he pulled away, Sherlock was stunned, leaving the doctor proud. "Come on. We don't have much time." With that, John pulled Sherlock towards the stairs, the surgery looming ever closer.

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><p>1- It all boils down to population control. Exemians do not ever hit a permanently infertile stage, so they had to stop the baby-production. Of course, this was all inflicted thousands of years ago, before safe birth control, and is now so ingrained in Exemian culture, it would be catastrophic to try and remove it. To be in this kind of relationship is now generally viewed as very romantic and highly sought after. Sherlock and John are just in a very unforgiving situation. Also, the term kerlaily (key-air-lah-ley) what Exemians call this type of mate.<p>

2- Altorny (All-tore-ney) is the Farish title for hero.

3- Literally, with the John being in such close proximity, being he is Sherlock's kerlaily, Sherlock's body is going into a panic over the fact they are struggling against the bond. While our bodies don't have an emergency 'your not dating' measure, think of it as when our immune system notices that we have a cold. Each of our symptoms is a step towards feeling better, making us feel worse in order to get us healthy once more. Without allowing their relationship to progress, their bodies are taking measures in order to get them there, upping the ante where ever possible. (I'll leave to the reader to pick up any 'symptoms' that I haven't illicitly told you about.)

4- Calling a Farish an 'insect' is a very degrading yet common term for them, though it is based on stereotype, because they are very insect like.

This story is actually a thinly veiled excuse to teach people about SCIENCE. I'm kidding... mostly. I hope you enjoyed! We're in the home stretch with two or three chapters to go, and hopefully I can give this a good ending. Please review!


	12. Chapter 11: Sterilization

**Author's Note: **Oh, I'm not even sorry anymore. I give up on apologizing for lateness. It's become the norm now. Thank you for the reviews, and I hope you enjoy the chapter!

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><p><strong>Chapter 11: Sterilization<br>**

Organized chaos was what the pre-surgery room could be best described as. Nurses and doctors were filing in and out, taking different samples and measurements away from Sherlock, who was not above snapping at them if they were particularly bothersome. One nurse left in tears when he told her that her husband was having an affair with one of her son's wife, after which John threatened that if it happened again, he was burning all of Sherlock's experiments. That surprisingly got the man to hold back on the deductions, though the insults still came out whenever someone was little too hurried with their procedure.

Mycroft was surprisingly there, speaking to an Exemian doctor in their rapid language, both appearing rustled with the current situation. Sherlock had informed John that they were arguing over how to best go about the upcoming surgery, Mycroft thinking that he knew more about medicinal energies than the hybrid doctor which, for some reason, Sherlock found extremely funny. John was not one to get the joke. He eyed the foreign woman with some curiosity, her appearance starkly contrasting all of the neat and orderly female nurses coming to and fro.

She was dark-skinned, with a sharp little nose and luminescent amber eyes. Her thin lips concealed white teeth that seemed too animal to be in a person's mouth while her thick body held a strength that had John shuffling away whenever she glanced his direction. Mycroft and Sherlock seemed comfortable enough around her, however, allowing her to clap them on the shoulder and embrace them in greeting. Upon seeing John, she'd given him an expression of interest, sniffing the air curiously before coming over to him.

"Hello." He had said when shaking her hand. It was large, like the rest of her, nearly crushing his bones in her grip.

"Greetings!" She replied in a booming voice, accent heavy and thick as she pulled him into a rather fierce embrace, nearly suffocating him in the process. He wheezed as she pulled back, beaming at John as she chuckled. "Little man, very strong. Good doctor. I smell that." She tapped her nose as if it made her broken metal-speak any more clear. John just nodded along, though she saw or rather, smelled, his confusion. "Ack, my metal-speak very bad(1)." She waved over Mycroft, growling at him in her own dialect.

"Desch is very pleased to make your acquaintance and can tell you must be quite the physician, by the way the other employees seem to respect your presence. She hopes that the both of you can work together to make Sherlock fly again." He said after a moment, "She also apologizes for her inability to properly speak in your mother language, for it has been fifty some odd annuals since she's needed to."

"That's alright." John assured, and Desch grinned again, reaching out to squeeze his right shoulder in thanks. As it were, she was as close to specialist in prosthetics that Exemia could provide, being the only living doctor to have successfully converted a metallic limb replacement into something usable for the patient. For the surgery, she would serve to direct the operators and use her own 'talents' to help the process reach a point in which Sherlock's body could easily take in the new wings. Afterwards, she was to serve as physical therapist. Months without proper use had caused the muscles in the wings to have atrophied to an unusable point, calling for the treatment. As a medical man, John was interested in how they would go about this.

He was ushered out not soon after the introductions, two nurses coming in to re-dress Sherlock for the operation and pre-sterilize his back and feathers. The man had protested, not wanting John to leave, but he, Mycroft and Desch were all but pushed into the hall. The other two took off down the corridor, discussing in their own language once again, while John opted to stay near the ward room, having no inclination to wander off in such a familiar place.

"Here with someone?" The voice was odd, accent foreign, and though seemingly sweet, it sent chills throughout John's skin. Its owner was dressed in shabby loose attire, a hat covering his head and shadowing his face, having slunk up to stand near the doctor without a sound. John regarded him for a moment before nodding his head in affirmation, suspicious, though not enough to muster up much defense. It was mostly likely a knee-jerk reaction, the strange posture and wide, dark eyes dredging up some unknown instincts, signaling danger when there was none there. "Is it the Exemian?"

"Possibly." The stranger flashed a tight grin, too quick to be of any real amusement.

"Lying doesn't fit the professional man, especially when there's evidence on his jacket." John glanced down, indeed seeing a small down quill clinging desperately to the cloth. Jumping as though he had been caught, John brushed it off, which seemed to entertain the man next to him. "Give my best to the mongrel, will you?" He hissed, beginning to walk away, slithering motions doing nothing to ease John's discomfort around him. He began to call out to his stranger, but was interrupted by Sherlock poking his head out of the room in irritation.

"John, are you going to join us, or continue to make acquaintances with the walls?"

"No, I was talking to-" He looked round, the stranger having disappeared from the hallway. "Right." Sherlock pulled him in, disgruntled by his new ward gown and John's minor absence. His feathered appendages were twitching, quills stuck out of place where the nurses had not bothered to smooth them over.

"This is completely idiotic." The patient said in annoyance as they came to the middle of the room.

"They can't operate on you in your casual clothes." He noted one of the nurses was appearing rather red-faced, mouth a thin line with his arms crossed over his chest. He gave Sherlock a displeased expression and the man tried to look victimized.

"I was merely making conversation. It's not my problem he didn't feel the need to talk about his rampant drinking habits." He explained, wings flapping in indignation when John continued to silently berate him. The two nurses left in a hurry when Sherlock settled back on the ward bed, both eager to another task far away from the irritated patient.

"I would have made you apologize, but seeing how you're getting sliced apart in less than an hour, I feel that is punishment enough." Sherlock scoffed at this, as John took a seat next to him on the hard mattress.

"I'm not a child."

"Really? I couldn't have guessed." He joked, and Sherlock smiled while clipping him over the head with one of his wings affectionately in retaliation.

"I'm surprised Lestrade hasn't found a way in here yet to hand me a case. For a relatively infamous group of nosy officials, your bluecoats are astonishingly stupid when it comes to certain things." John snorted at this, allowing Sherlock to rest his head on his shoulder with a sigh, the heavy feathered limbs blanketing his back and pulling him closer.

"They didn't spend half of their careers with magic around, did they?" John tried to reason, absentmindedly smoothing out a few feathers as Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Not all of it's 'magic', John and a criminal could walk into their offices with a simple sensory block(2), and no one would be the wiser. It's almost embarrassing." John let it go, happy to allow Sherlock to use him as a pillow until the nurses came to cart him away to the operating room.

It was silent in the observation room. The oppressing, suffocating kind of quiet as one watched a human being cut up in the name of health and science. The white-washed walls and floors didn't help either, though the courtesy of three chairs and a single end table with a vase of yellow fieur flowers were less cheerful than they were morbid. Nothing gave off the impression of life like a nearly empty room with a large glass window looking down at surgeries while a bouquet of vegetation slowly died in the corner.

Below, in the well-lit circle, doctors and nurses fretted over Sherlock, who was lying face down, very much unconscious, wings propped up by small wheeled tables. They were to remove the excess material first, cutting each already damaged appendage to an acceptable point before placing the docking points for the prosthetics. Anhelan biology was tricky; it demanded symmetry. Each wing had to be the same weight, and span as its brother. They were essentially tricking the body into believing it had never lost the parts in the first place, therefore the energy that thrived within the system would accept and convert the metal into something usable, if it could. Hence Desch stalking the outer rims of the surgery, amber eyes casting a glow upon her tanned face as she watched the proceedings with the utmost concentration.

John had wanted to be in the room as well, close by to Sherlock in case of complications, yet the hybrid doctor had snapped at him, demanding he stayed in the observation room.

"Too much!" She had accused, jabbing him hard in the chest, and then proceeded to continue a heated scolding in her native tongue, its harsh deep nature grating on John's bemused ears. Sherlock had explained in some amusement that having John in the room, with their stilted relationship, could potentially disrupt the operation on accident if anything were to go wrong. Unhappy with the verdict, John said nothing, knowing that any argument he gave on the manner would be swiftly struck down. Exemians had their own ways, and he wasn't one to ruin their dramatic rituals.

There was a terrifying moment during the implantation process when Sherlock began to struggle, wings snapping wildly to fend off the surgeons. John had felt the distress clear in his head, even through the barrier of the glass. It spurned the adrenaline in his system, making him itch go down and help the man. Desch was quick to Sherlock's side, hand lit with a dull blue as she tried to put him back under.

"It's alright. Calm down, Sherlock." He had murmured under his breath, hand pressed against the cool glass, and surprisingly enough, the man stilled, resting against the hard operation table while his wings did little more than twitch before coming a halt as well. Desch glared at him from below, her expression seething with rage as she slunk back from the patient, ready to hop back in at a moment's notice. It was nerve-wracking, the sudden clammy feel to his skin at the realization that somewhere in Sherlock's unconscious, he could feel exactly what was happening. Maybe this was why they didn't want him down there, why Desch kept shooting him scathing looks every few minutes as he itched to go and put a stop to the whole procedure.

Molly wandered in at one moment, curiously watching beside John as Stamford had made his appearance in the surgery, carefully setting the prosthetics in place as Desch used her abilities to help the body along in accepting them. Even through the glass, John could feel the thrum of power in the air as the foreign doctor ran an inspecting luminescent hand over each new part added. Both of their faces were tight with concentration, working almost fluidly despite being strangers. Fascinating on a scientific level, yet nerve-wracking on a personal one, John felt the need to sit down in one of the chairs, yet he continued to stand vigil, rooted to the spot.

"I wonder what its like." Molly stated after some time.

"Hm?"

"To have wings. I mean, it's not like arms and legs. Plenty of people come through the shop missing a hand or a foot, yet we need those to move yet and those are coming out of his back…" She stopped, blushing. "Sorry, I'm just thinking out loud."

"It's fine." John assured. "They need their wings just as much as the arms and legs."

"Hopefully you won't need any replacements, though I'd be happy to make you a new foot if you ever need it." Molly teased, and John gave a tense chuckled, before allowing the conversation to end, keeping his attention on the operation. She left not soon after, and the surgery ended within the hour, leaving John exhausted with rather sore feet.

Sherlock was sleeping on the ward bed, curled on his side with his wings propped by an extra cot as he slumbered fitfully. His new metallic limbs clanked quietly together at every few moments. They did little of the movement themselves, pushed together as their natural counterparts twitched in pain. Desch insisted that the sleep she had put him in needed to run its course, no matter how deep and strange it seemed to John.

"Help with healing. Keep mind in good place, away from… how you say… painck?" John corrected her wearily, not wanting to spark any sort of rage out of the woman. She nodded eagerly, murmuring the pronunciation to herself before continuing. "Stay here. You help keep calm. Need rest. I be back tomorrow." She left them, stalking out of the room in a way that was both unnerving and down-right pretentious. With a sigh, John resigned himself to resting in the chair, wondering briefly if he had enough time to duck out and find something to eat. The thought Mycroft glaring him down if they returned before him was enough to keep him seated firmly in place, however. Eventually, the elder Holmes found his way into the room, ushering John out to go and enjoy some last-meal, claiming that his absence would be of little consequence for Sherlock, who was out like a stone.

The in-ward restaurant was nearly empty, only a single bored worker coming around to accept food orders. The atmosphere was calm and peaceful with an elaborate amount of glass candles, and even more flower vases to dot each table. This did nothing for John and he had a certain niggling feeling deep in his mind that he couldn't shake, even with a warm cup of tea in his hand while he tried to stuff down a sandwich, though his appetite seemed to be just as elusive as his anxiety was strong. He didn't know why, but something had him on edge. An instinct was blaring in head to remain cautious, and he hurried his small meal to return to his bed-ridden friend. He left with only half of the food consumed and a few coin placed for payment, yet he doubted the worker would miss him much.

John had come back to a semi-conscious Sherlock, propped against the headboard of the ward bed, and Mycroft standing over him, wings surprisingly jutting out of his back as he muttered something rapidly to his glaring brother. Mycroft's own plumage was exceedingly well-groomed, a mingling of browns, reds, and black, outstretched in, as John had learned, a stand-offish manner. Sherlock took a moment from his staring contest to glance at John, face breaking into a faint smile.

"Ah, there you are. I was starting to worry." His speech was lightly slurred, and he rolled his head back to continue to unhappily look at Mycroft, who was startled enough by John's appearance that his wings promptly disappeared into nonexistence. "Go away." Sherlock demanded with little heat, raising a hand to shoo at the elder Holmes childishly. "You're bothering me."

"Now, really, Sherlock."

"The embassy is getting cold without your thick figure there." He grumbled back, laughing at the insult.

"Sherlock!" Both John and and the ambassador snapped. Mycroft appeared extremely affronted by his brother's words, anger clear on his usually apathetic face.

"It appears you are quite deep in Desch's medication. John, I will leave you to him until the morning."

"How are you feeling?" Once Mycroft had left the room, storming out with a dramatic flourish, and he had settled in his rightful seat next to Sherlock's bed, John was able to finally quell the knot of anxiety ever since leaving the room. The winged man did not dignify the question with a response, wincing when he moved one of his new limbs wrong. John resigned himself to the silence, grateful just for a moment to relax.

"It's quiet." Sherlock muttered, eyes closed, jolting John out of a light doze. With the man being so still, he had assumed Sherlock had fallen asleep once more. He glanced around, noting the calm of the room and nodding in agreement.

"It is, isn't it?"

"Not that." Sherlock snapped, rolling his head to the side to look at his companion. His pale eyes were glassy under the medication's effect, hair tousled and unkempt as he gazed at John with a certain amount of sorrow accompanied by a slight pout of the lips. "My head. It's been quiet since that terrible woman shot me full of that horrid medication."

"I would think that's a good thing." John commented, and Sherlock smiled weakly. "Is that supposed to happen?" The man nodded.

"Tricky hybrid doctors." He yawned, scooting down carefully to lie on his side, giving John a pleading look when he couldn't maneuver the prosthetics correctly. The doctor was by his side in the blink of an eye, gently coaxing him into a comfortable position facing towards John. It was less than ideal, but Sherlock was rapidly becoming a dead weight to the rest of the world, and John wasn't one to wrestle with him so soon after an operation.

He went to stand, using the bed as leverage, yet a hand on his stopped him. Sherlock blinking at his blearily, exhausted and fighting it back rather brilliantly from John's standpoint.

"Stay." It was a weak demand that he could easily comply with.

"Alright, I'm right here." He answered, situating himself comfortably so he could lay his head on the hard mattress, while still seated on the ground. This pleased the winged man, for he relaxed, the hand covering John's loosening, though not going anywhere.

"I want you to kiss me." Sherlock stated bluntly, and John let out a laugh.

"If we were anywhere else, maybe. This isn't exactly a private place." John reasoned, with some amount of merriment to mask the tinge of sadness he had as he spoke the words.

"I am on a rather ridiculous amount of pain medication, and I was enjoying the illusion it was giving me, but thank you for ruining that." Sherlock mumbled, breathing beginning to even out as sleep started to take over.

"You know, I rather like you like this. I wonder if Desch would give me some extra to slip into your food whenever you get particularly horrible." There was something muttered under his companion's breath at that, but there was no use understanding him; he'd fallen under again. John smiled, content to stay there, observing the slumbering man. He had seen him sleep before, often on the sofa, yet never this close.

He slipped his hand out from underneath Sherlock's, only to cover it after a moment's consideration. His thumb smoothed over the dry skin on the bony knuckles as he reveled in the warmth and contact, watching the sleeping man's face as he drifted in slumber. Sherlock snuffled quietly, settling with his mouth slightly agape, and John was almost overcome with the need to trace his lips with his fingers, to caress the pale skin on his cheeks. He wanted to run a hand through the unruly dark hair, feel the strands as he combed it into some semblance of order. Instead, he settled in to merely enjoyed what touch they did have, not trusting any wary nurses to pop in whenever they please. He drifted off soon himself, relaxed to sounds of Sherlock's breathing and the gentle scent of Sherlock's pheromones spicing the air(3).

Sherlock's hand was still under his, warm and slightly sweaty, when John was awoken to a crick in his neck and a sharp rap on the shoulder from an umbrella. "Make yourself decent. The physician is coming in." He blinked quickly, stretching and rolling his sore muscles from the awkward sleeping position.

"Tell the she-beast to keep her tonic away from me." Sherlock hissed, still lying on his side, though very much awake. He was tense, and agitated, all telling that he was unable to move for fear of setting off the sensitive wounds.

"Don't be so melodramatic." Mycroft scoffed as John stumbled to his feet. Just the barest hints of light were making their way over the buildings outside and he nearly went back to the floor. Barely four hours of sleep and he had appointments today. He groaned, rubbing a hand through his short hair, the urge to miss all of them becoming exceedingly prominent when he saw Sherlock watching him mournfully.

"You won't be missed for a few hours, John." Mycroft assured, with what seemed to be a comforting smile. The doctor wondered briefly if he should inform the ambassador that he wasn't all that great at empathy, but he decided it best to avoid any more tension, especially after so little sleep. "We'll keep him from any harm." Sherlock snorted at this, despite his passive appearance.

"He's smart to worry about leaving me in the hands of my brother and his mongrel doctor." Sherlock retorted, fist clenching in response to a twang of pain from his wing as it twitched violently.

"Should this be hurting him so much?"

"From most of the previous accounts, it would seem so, unfortunately. But, worry not, John." Mycroft grasped his shoulder rather harshly, a strange leering grin on his face. "Sherlock will be well taken care of while you work." He let go, and John took a moment to glance at the patient, silently asking if the man wouldn't mind him leaving. Sherlock merely nodded and waved him off, shifting uncomfortably.

With that, he left the room with a terse goodbye, Mycroft all but shoving him out. Exiting, he came to a dead hallway, empty save for the doors and the walls themselves. The clinical smell of sterilization, the suppressing weight of depression, and the presence of disease co-mingled in the ever present suffocating aroma, causing him to hurry his steps. It was one of the reason he chosen his job specifically. Being a floating physician limited his time in the ward to only events of great need, leading him far from its looming presence. He enjoyed helping people, but the wards were just a constant reminder of where you went to die. Very few met their end peacefully in their beds at home, and John had seen many young factory workers pass miserably from infection and disease from the poor working conditions in these same halls. Getting better was only optional if you had the money, which so few had.

"John." He turned to see Mycroft not too far behind, appearing troubled in a completely Holmes-like way.

"I can't chat. I'm already running behind." He pointed out, almost scathingly, only slightly annoyed when Mycroft didn't react in the slightest.

"I have something to ask of you." John said nothing, allowing the ambassador to take his cue to continue. "You need to distance yourself from my brother, just until he has healed properly."

"What do you mean?"

"Pull back, at least, physically. Under such a state, all the Exemian body would want is to find some form of relief. Bonding with you would provide that, though the consequences would be rather unpleasant if we had to split the two of you. It would be best if you do as I say, John." He was nearly done with Mycroft and his meddling. The man may be Sherlock's brother, but as of late, he was being ridiculously aggravating.

"Why does-" He paused, the anger dissipating as a tremor ran down his spine when someone brushed past him. It was the stranger from earlier, hat pulled low over his head while he stalked through the hall, something in his strange fluid movement sending John on high alert.

"John?" Mycroft questioned, watching him closely as the doctor eyed the stranger. His footsteps barely made a sound, each one calculated and silent upon the concrete floor. John couldn't shake the paranoia out of his thoughts, unable to look elsewhere until the man passed by Sherlock's room and disappeared from the hallway at the other end. Mycroft glanced over his shoulder, his face pinched in curiosity. "Are you quite alright?"

"Yeah, fine." John mumbled shortly, checking back behind the ambassador quickly. Something wasn't right. He tore his gaze from the empty expanse to Mycroft's worried features. A sudden protectiveness gripped him, and the want to skip his appointments became more and more desirable. "Don't leave Sherlock alone till I get back." Mycroft seemed taken aback by the sudden demand.

"And my request?"

"I'll do what I can, just... keep an eye on him, alright?" He didn't leave until he had Mycroft's bemused word, and even then, continued to watch over his shoulder the whole way to his first appointment, unable to shake the unease from his very skin.

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><p>1- While Mycroft and Sherlock have a relative ease with learning new languages, due to their specific genetics, Desch (deh-sh) is not of their breed and learning a whole new language takes years for her type to master. A little interesting note on languages, in Exemia, there are seven specific languages, each with many different dialects depending on the region. Ever since the treaties had been placed and all of the different races began cooperating with each other, most of the world is bi-lingual, learning their mother language, and then one known as Common, which most everyone speaks.<p>

2- A sensory block is a simple way of becoming unnoticeable to untrained eyes. It involves literally making oneself so forgettable, that everyone around you ignores your presence. These range in skill levels, but the most simple ones merely mean no one will notice you so long as you do nothing to arouse suspicion.

3- While they are used mainly for sexual arousal, Anhelan/Dekin pheromones have few other uses, one being comfort, as seen here. It can also be used to warn potential threats, ward away nosy predators(as seen in chapter 7), and even chase off smitten courtiers who didn't get the message that the person's mate is taken.

As always, if there are any questions, do please ask and I'll answer them if I won't later in the story. Hope you enjoyed and thank you for reading!


	13. Chapter 12: Backlash

**Author's Note:** Finals are coming up and I had very little time to write, so please accept this extremely late update as an apology! Thank you for all for the reviews, and I hope you enjoy the chapter!

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><p><strong>Chapter 12: Backlash<strong>

Sherlock stumbled, completely off-kilter in the ward room with the new weight on his back. John was there to catch him, arm wrapped around his waist while the man held his head gingerly, blinking rapidly. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

"'Mm fine." His speech was still slurred, and John couldn't help but worry when Sherlock pushed away, nearly falling once again before catching himself on a chair.

"If something's wrong, you need to tell me." He close to pleading with his friend, Sherlock was having none of it, shaking his head, and taking in a deep breath before carefully staggering to the washroom.

"It's just the medicine." He called back as he closed the door. John glanced towards Desch for help, but she was staring vacantly at the floor, a deep frown set in her dark features.

"How long does he need it for?" He asked her, approaching the hybrid carefully. She flinched away from him when he put a finger to her shoulder, regaining some of her usual composure in a flash.

"As long as needed." She replied, belaying a forced smile before leaving the room in a hurry. John watched her go, unsure of her sudden change of behavior. He almost went after her when something pinged in his head, a soft tinkling sound like a bell that he could've sworn it had been right in his ear. He grunted, face pinching as he lightly touched a hand to his temple, bracing for it to happen again so he could pinpoint the origin. It did not return; though he stayed standing there in the middle of the ward room until Sherlock came back out, complaining though appearing quite a bit better.

"I wonder if I can find a way into the morgue. Using human subjects would provide more accurate results for my experiments." John nodded distractedly, still rubbing absent-mindedly at his temple, unsure of the new development. "Something's happened while I was in the other room." Sherlock stated, snapping John back into the present.

"Hm? No, I'm fine." Sherlock quirked an eyebrow with a half-smile. "I am!" John insisted, moving past him towards the door. "Did you want to come with me to the shop?"

"I'm not cavorting with the rest of the ward rabble." He said haughtily, flicking a wing out dramatically.

"Right. I'll be back then, and stay out of the morgue!" He yelled back, grinning at himself for no particular reason while shuffling into the hall once more, dodging past rushing nurses and physicians as they ran too and fro.

Meetings with Desch were subdued at best. They ended promptly as night fell, the Exemian swiftly leaving the ward for no particular reason other than it had become dark. Slowly, John had come to realize her usual fire had gone out, her eyes dull and instructions with little emphasis behind them. It was easy to catch her staring out at the sky while going through exercises with Sherlock, yet John felt it rude to ask why. Every now and then, out of the corner of his eye, he could find her glaring at Sherlock, a somber, resentful expression, gaze hardened and lips pulled into a fine line over her large incisors. Only once did Desch find John looking her way while she stared at her patient, nostrils flared as she nearly shook in silence.

"Yes?" She had asked, features relaxing as soon as she noticed, expression challenging him to make a remark. John had fought and suffered through things no metal-worker could imagine in his short life, and he was no coward, yet he waved it off without a fuss, hurrying to lead Sherlock out of the room as the muffled ringing came and went again in his head.

"Why does she look at you like that?" They were in the small restaurant, Sherlock eating very little once again now that he was settled almost back to normal.

"It's nothing." The man answered dismissively, frowning when one of his new wings creaked, the metal grating on metal irritatingly.

"It's not nothing. She looks… weird whenever you're around. Like-"

"Like I've murdered her entire family?" Sherlock interrupted, suddenly holding John's gaze with an intensity that knocked the breath from him. "She is of Woerick and Elkieron descent. It's only proper she dislikes me when my backs turned."

"What for?"

"It was only two-hundred annuals ago the Dekins and Elkierons were fighting a war over much less than the Ungar and you are. Yours is over land. Ours was over supremacy, bragging rights. It encompassed our whole world, and nearly drove four races to extinction."

"But that was ages ago."

"Wounds leave scars. There are still strips of forests in the Elkieron's land that burnt down to the ground. Dekins tend to forgive easily, but on her side of things… One twitch of the hands or a single misplaced word, and all of that rage comes flooding back. You have to remember, Exemians live five times the length you do. That war was merely two generations away(1)." He sat back, folding his arms over his chest, trying to make the best of impressions, yet it fell flat when his wings squeaked again. His face twisted into that of some hideous annoyance. "This is absolutely terrible."

"They're going to keep doing that." John said with some amusement.

"There must be some oil that can ease their way. Anything to stop this noise." He pouted.

"At least I'll never lose you." He replied, chuckling to himself. Sherlock spent the rest of the meal gingerly moving his wings about, finding the easiest positions in which the least amount of noise could be made. The determination carried on well into the evening, producing no actual results as control over the metallic limbs was still minimal.

His week stay at the ward was coming to a close, and John was unable to escort Sherlock back to the flat, much to his chagrin. With the constant switching around in his schedule as of late, his more stubborn clients had demanded late appointments, ones which he could not move elsewhere. Sherlock seemed fine with it, waving him off with a disinterested hand as he tried in vain to obtain some sort of control over one of his bottom-most wings. It flopped uselessly, clanking as it resettled across his back. Desch watched the proceedings with an observant eye, barking out instructions in her tongue every now and then. John smiled in amusement, clapping a hand to his shoulder in reassurance. Disgruntled, Sherlock swatted him away, and the doctor yelped in surprise when a small discharge came off Sherlock's fingers, enough to send him reeling.

"Damn." John rubbed his hand from where he had been shocked. A quick glance at Sherlock revealed a wide-eyed expression, which morphed into an ear-to-ear grin.

"Now this is something I can work with." He twiddled his fingers, a small spark of electricity hissing between them.

"So this is what you can do."

"Do?"

"Well, Mycroft can do that flitting(2) thing, and you can do...this."

"I admit I can 'do' more once I can fly and produce an excess of zwa, electricity has been something of a fondness of mine(3)." He replied wistfully, flicking a wing proudly. Desch nodded along, eyes gleaming in what John thought to be pride that her patient had made some progress. He left shortly after, hurrying to his first patient.

The day dragged by slowly, each client having nothing wrong with them save the most minor of issues. The appointments were a waste of both his and the person's time, yet he suffered through, needing the money and the career security. It was near sunsset when a reason to leave came to him in the form of Stamford, hurrying to catch him on his way out of his fourth patient's home.

"John!" The man came to a standstill before him, breathing hard, shining hand clutching at his side. In the other, he held a large vial of a viscous clear liquid, which he pressed into John's hand once he had calmed. "I've been looking for you all day. Went round to the hospital, and both of you were out! Lucky me I was just popping into the shop here for a bit." He said, wiping the sweat from his brow.

"What is this?" John examined the glass bottle, noting the slow slide of the oil inside and the minimal sweet smell is held.

"Put it on the prosthetics to keep them from scraping too much. Should cut down the noise by a good amount. I would've given it to him a while ago but you wouldn't believe how fast I run out of it. I just got the shipment in this morning." John nodded eagerly.

"Might as well get this to him now. He's completely at wit's end with his new wings." He thanked Stamford, making his way home quickly, but not before stopping a messenger office to send a quick letter to his last patient, knowing the elderly woman would not mind the last minute re-schedule.

The weight of the oil was a jovial reminder as he eagerly sat in the carriage, impatient to arrive at the flat. Despite this, the trip was a short one, and he hopped out onto the curb as soon as the vehicle slowed, passing the appropriate amount of coin into the driver's hands. It was just before suns set, the sky a bright blue, intermixed with pinks and oranges as the two stars found their way to the horizon. John took note of this, grateful for the cool afternoon as he approached his home.

Something caught him off guard, however. Just as he made it up the steps to the door, it swung open revealing a very disgruntled Lestrade exiting the premise.

"Greg? What are you doing here?" He asked, thoroughly confused.

"I came to ask Sherlock for his help, and the bastard's not even here."

"What do you mean? He was supposed to be back with the therapist forty minutes ago."

"Well, Mrs. Hudson says he never came back. Must've ran o-" John didn't hear the rest of the sentence, the bell in his head once more, chiming louder than ever. It clicked then, sliding into place after these last days; Sherlock was in danger. Everything began fitting together as though some rudimentary puzzle that he was unable to see the answer to for its simplicity. Every side glare whenever Sherlock showed up with John, the insistence on the medicine, each meeting ending before sundown… He looked up at the sky, seeing the suns so close to disappearing behind the grey and brown buildings, his panic rising with every beat.

"Oh my gods…" He whispered, before bolting, heart hammering as he headed back down the stairs to the still thankfully waiting carriage.

"What? What is it?" Lestrade called out in worry.

"Somethings gone wrong." He called back, facing Lestrade for but a moment. "If Sherlock's not here then he's in danger."

"Where is he?" Lestrade asked, coming up to John just as he opened the carriage door. The doctor gave him a long hard look, unsure and with dread rising with every millimeter the suns had in their descent.

"Where ever, there will be a siren(4). Hopefully you'll be the one to come when it sounds." He clambered into the vehicle swiftly, ignoring Lestrade's protests as he all but yelled at the driver to step on it when the chime came again, clear and resonating, more so that before. He wasn't thinking, barely even breathing as he instructed the driver the whole way, each block adding volume and depth to the noise in his head until it was a deafening never-ending thrum echoing in his ears. The world outside switched from the mediocre of the middle ring to the desolation and depression of the lower, dirty factory workers shuffling home with exhausted, dead eyes, each a perfect picture of hopelessness after a long day in at the forge.

John gasped as everything went silent, the deep ring of the bell vanishing as quickly as it had come. He stopped the carriage a block from where the silence had rang clear and he walked along the cracked pathway to a broken down warehouse, haloed by the deep burning orange as day transitioned into night. Running on instinct, his muscles relaxed as he took in a deep calming breath, John entered the building, prepared for anything to greet him as the doors creaked open.

A desolate calm filled the place, an eerie sense of peace that picked at his nerves as he moved carefully through the old building. He picked through the halls, thoughts numb as he stepped quietly around rubble and debris, small critters scurrying at the sight of him. The large storage area was empty, its bleak appearance doing nothing for John's anxiety, though he quelled it with some ease; Sherlock was here and alive. There was no tangible way to know, but the niggling parasitic feeling was what he relied on. John paused a moment, listening carefully for anything when he heard the light scrape of metal on metal, coming from the back rooms. Relieved yet still on the defensive, he hurried toward the noise, wincing as his shoes clacked loudly on the old floor, crunching tremendously when he happened upon a rodent skeleton.

A door stood ajar within the small hallway, dark as the rest while the suns continued their fall, with small specks of dust dancing mockingly in the lightest of breezes. John peered inside, nearly crying out when he spotted Sherlock, unconscious and lying on his front.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" He was on his knees beside him, rolling the man to his side, wary of his wings as he immediately touched his neck, noting his friend's steady driving pulse. "Thank Oruik." He pressed a palm to the cool pale cheek, pulling Sherlock's head in his hands. He felt gingerly for a pulse along his neck, delighted in the powerful lethargic drumming of it against his fingers.

"Jo- John." Sherlock's pale eyes fluttered open, drowsy as he fought whatever was keeping him from functioning properly. A small inflammation could be seen in the crook of his elbow and John could only imagine what the man had been injected with. He grasped John's wrist, struggling to right himself, using his arm as leverage to push himself up, though it gave out on him easily.

"Sh, it's alright. I'm here. We'll get out of here, alright?"

"No, John…" The hand on his wrist loosened as he grunted in pain, his wings beating weakly.

"Stop it. I need you to calm down. I'm going to get help." John promised, pulling out of Sherlock's fading grip. The man collapsed back to the dirty floor, and John stood to find the siren call yet was stopped by the sight of Desch in the doorway eyes wide in fear and anger. "You!"

"John…" She seemed broken, her eyes widening and posture failing as she leaned on one side, turmoil flaring in her expression. "No, no…"

"What the hell did you do to him?" He demanded, not realizing till too late that the agony on her face was directed towards him, not herself.

"Forgiveness, John." She stated, barreling towards him in determination, hunched over like some sort of predator with her eyes shining amber.

"Wha-" He side-stepped her when she took a swipe at him, her large hands grasping at thin air. "Tell me what's going on!" He didn't see the hand coming until it hit him square in the shoulder, sending him to the ground, though he was quick to recover, moving just in time for Desch to stomp at the ground where his head used to be. When she came at him again, he landed a punch in her stomach, knocking her back a beat, but his next hit failed, her strong fingers stopping his blow as she tossed him easily to the side.

He hit the wall, all the air whooshing out of him. Dazed, he brought no resistance when Desch opened a small pouch at her side, water flowing from it to be forged around his wrists, sealing them by his sides to the wood. He fought against them, though it was little use, the ice a solid blockade and soon the Exemian stood before him, face set in a deep frown as she looked upon him. More water came from her satchel, flowing through the air towards John's face.

"You don't have to do this!" John pleaded, panic evident in his voice as he realized her intent.

"I do. My mate…" Her voice was wracked with pain and he could see the tears welling in her eyes, though she blinked them back, expression reverting to a stony apathy. "I'm sorry." John took in a deep breath and held it as the water covered his nose and mouth, a deathly mask hovering over him just waiting for a single inhale to smother and fill his lungs. Seconds dragged into hours as they stayed there, suspended between life and death, tears flowing freely down Desch face as she could not look him in the eye. He felt the burn in his throat as the oxygen began to deplete, the need to breathe weighing down his chest as he fought against the instinct.

Closing his eyes, he hoped for anything, prayed to every god he knew for some sort of miracle. As he swallowed, feeling light-headed and knowing he was soon to either pass out or take a single watery breath, he look to Sherlock, still unconscious with his mouth agape. He seemed like a figure from a myth, a godsend even among the debris of the warehouse floor, pale and beautiful. John was going to die here, drowned on dry land, and only the gods knew what would happen to Sherlock once he was dead with no one coming to their rescue.

With less than a second to spare, the need becoming too great and blackness taking over his vision, John gave one last prayer for Sherlock's safety, desperate for anything to keep the other man alive.

There was a loud gasp and a sound like lightning as Desch was illuminated and mouth agape in a silent scream, body twitching as if in a seizure. The water around John's face and ice around his wrists fell to the floor with a splash as he and the Exemian dropped, her dead and he gasping. He had never felt so grateful for it in his life, gulping down the stagnant, dirty air as though it were the sweetest of elixirs.

"John." Sherlock pushed him to his side, offering his hand to pull the doctor to a shaking standing position before pulling him into a strong embrace. Still dizzy from oxygen deprivation, John struggled reciprocate, weak in the limbs, though Sherlock held him up. He didn't want to let go, he couldn't let go. He had been so close to losing everything, and yet he didn't, the adrenaline pumping through his body as he clung to Sherlock in an attempt to calm down. He felt a hand card through his hair, and he didn't step away until Sherlock gently pushed him, reaching for the siren call to alert the bluecoats. Even then, he stayed close, some internal need to make sure that he hadn't actually drowned and this wasn't some afterlife hallucination.

Lestrade and his men arrived promptly, the officer being prepared to come at a moment's notice. They were escorted away after a scant amount of questioning, the officials eager to clear the scene before gossip hungry citizens discovered it. The ride back to 221B was a sullen one, both John and Sherlock in their own respective thoughts, with the doctor's gratefulness for being alive slowly being replaced by the anger at the betrayal of Sherlock's physician.

"She was in on it. This whole bloody time." He stomped inside, Sherlock close behind.

"No, not until after the surgery." The Exemian found himself upon the sofa, collapsing upon it with a grunt, yet still managing to retain some semblance of grace. "She was approached by someone, an agent of this Moriarty, telling her what needed to be done. They used her mate in order to keep her in line. I was to be delivered tonight into the hands of our elusive antagonist, but no one expected you to show up." John nearly did a doubled take, eyes narrowing as he stared at Sherlock.

"Hang on, you knew too?"

"It all came together when Desch took issue with you being at the sessions with us." He shrugged as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and how dare John not realize all of this sooner. "Any accessories would need to be gotten rid of and she wanted to spare you of that. Your late schedule tonight would mean that this was the date intended for my capture. After you left, she excused herself, presumably to contact her superiors. Perfectly obvious."

"You knew all of this and you still went with it. You could have died!" He was nearly shaking, voice raising with every moment. How could Sherlock do something so idiotic?

"Don't be stupid. I was needed alive."

"You couldn't possibly have known! You were handing yourself to an alleged criminal and you thought every thing would be just fine?" He had been drugged, and he assumed nothing would happen to him. John wanted to punch him, possibly put some sense back into his ridiculous head.

"You're angry with me." Sherlock stated, head cocked slightly to the side and his wings doing the same, as if he couldn't understand just why John would be upset.

"That's a good deduction, yeah." John sneered, putting on a faux smile.

"He wouldn't want me dead, I know that." Sherlock assured, though the doctor was having none of it.

"No, you don't. Even if he didn't, what would've stopped them from carting you off to some gods forsaken realm? I don't know if has occurred to you, but Moriarty is a slaver and you're not exactly uncut(5)." Sherlock appeared stunned by the admission.

"John..."

"Never mind. I'm going to bed." He turned to walk away, unsure of what might happen if he stayed any longer. "We can talk about this in the morning." It shouldn't have surprised him, this reckless behavior. They'd been living together for months, and this wasn't the first time the man had thrown himself into the path of danger, except this one was different. John wasn't supposed to have been there, he wasn't in the plan, and that frightened him to an extreme extent. Going back to Exemia would not end Sherlock's rash decisions, but there he would not have John to follow, provide assistance and protect him. He would have no one to check on him, keep him from stumbling into life threatening situations such as the one that brought him to Trias in the first place. It was a numbing thought, being a whole world away from Sherlock, knowing he had little care for his own life. It as if he had been hit with brick as the answer to his dichotomy slammed together within an instant.

He didn't make it to the stairs, barely hearing Sherlock move as a hand grabbed him by the shoulder, ceasing his purposeful march. "Sherlock," He started, but was interrupted when he was turned, the man placing a palm to his cheek and leaning down to capture his mouth in a sincere kiss. Stunned, John took a moment to relax into the touch, melting against him as he pulled himself closer. The scent permeated through the air as an all-encompassing need filled John, worries and doubts falling away under the touch of his companion. They broke apart a moment, only to have Sherlock begin mouthing down his neck, fingers pulling under his shirt to caress the skin beneath. He sighed, unable to resist the contact as he grasped Sherlock's shoulder gently.

Time became a strange thing as one moment they were at the bottom of the stairs, and the next he being crowded against his bedroom door panting while they eagerly worked to undress as quickly as possible. There was hardly a breath to wonder if they should stop, between the doorway and the bed, lost in the slick slide of skin on skin. Lying beneath Sherlock, John grasped at one of his wings, indulging in the downy feathers as Sherlock keened, mashing their lips together as he ground harder against John.

"Oh gods!" He had gasped, bucking into Sherlock's hand as the pleasure of it overwhelmed him. The world washed away in the wake of his climax, Sherlock following over in his own hand, collapsing upon John, breathing heavily. He sought John's mouth again, their sweet caress a welcome change from the rushed touches before. It wasn't long before he slid into a calm rest, eyes sliding close as Sherlock rubbed a curious hand at his scar. He felt at peace for the first time in nearly three years.

There was an odd scene, in the waxing hours of the day, a scant line of light coming from the horizon as the first sun began to ascend, when John lightly rolled out of slumber to a quiet shuffling within his room. In his half-awakened state, he recognized Sherlock as he stopped just before John's side of the bed, staring down at him with a luminescent gaze.

"Too early, Sherlock." John mumbled, slipping quickly back under the blanket of slumber. Sherlock bent down, placing a lingering kiss on John's lips, one which John tried to reciprocate yet Sherlock pulled away all too quickly and his eyes closed once more, barely wondering at the scant amount of wetness he felt upon his cheek.

"Go back to sleep, John." He heard Sherlock say, a hand resting on his forehead as he fell easily back into unconsciousness, his dreams a vague dance of characters, though one figure shone the rest with pale eyes and brilliant wings.

* * *

><p>1- Desch is around 150+ years old, making her the first generation out of the first and only massive world war in Exemia. Sherlock and Mycroft, however, would be the second generation out. Due to her Elkieron side, Desch is exposed to a large amount of hostility towards anything Dekin, while Sherlock's side is much more forgiving, or at least better at putting genocide behind them.<p>

2- Flitting= teleportation. Many different societies have a variety of words for this particular ability, but 'flitting' and 'blinking' are the most common. Fun fact: Some settlements on Mortal realms call it 'porting' but this is mostly used by teenagers and shady business men.

3- Just a recap on zwa: An energy that fills all of Exemia, found in every living form. Can be manipulated for 'magical' powers if found in excess in sentient beings (can be read as most sentient beings). Producing it in excess depends on the race, in Sherlock's case, flying= excess. (I would go into the whole anatomical reason of why this happens, but that would take about another two to three thousand words and would get very boring.)

4- Most buildings with electrical wiring have what's called the 'siren call'. It's basically a small box with few specific buttons inside which can be pressed to alert bluecoats to places of emergency, the various buttons indicating a different type of issue so that the proper officials can be dispatch in a timely manner. Even when a place is receiving no electricity, these are still operational as per Guier law.

5- Uncut is a term used to imply someone is unattractive (It has nothing to do with penises, and everything to do with mining). Originally, it was used to talk about ugly children who have potential to be attractive (in reference to gemstones fresh from the mine), but as the years went on, it morphed into its present meaning.

Holy cow, this took forever to get up. I blame the government. Next chapter is the last and, I have it mostly written, so expect it by next weekend! Reviews are nice.


	14. Chapter 13: Numbing

**Chapter 13: Numbing**

A stream of sunlight poured into his room as he woke slowly, enclosed in the warmth and comfort of his blankets. With a sigh, he blearily opened his eyes, blinking rapidly as he took note of his surroundings, saddening when he noticed that he was alone in his bed. Of course, Sherlock barely slept more than four hours on a good day, and spending any more time lying down must get boring. John vaguely remembered the man moving about in the early morning while he unfolded himself from his coverings, yawning pleasantly as his feet hit the cool wooden floor.

Pulling on some clothes, he winced at the bruising on his abdomen and back, maneuvering gingerly as he recalled the incident the night before. He briefly wondered what would happen to Desch's mate now that she had failed to deliver Sherlock to the hands of Moriarty. He prayed for the best for the person, whoever it was, while he made his way slowly to the sitting room.

The silence in the flat was unsettling, with Sherlock nowhere to be found yet this could be expected. He disappeared so often, it was the norm now, yet something in John was intrinsically wrong. He could feel it as he padded lightly to the kitchen, an odd hollow ache in him that nearly had the doctor heading for his medical kit. An anxiety began to creep in, Sherlock's absence worrying him in a way it hadn't before. Rolling his eyes at himself, John dismissed it for the close call that had happened to night before, yet nothing quite felt right.

John was about to search for the telltale note, chastising himself, knowing that the presence of Sherlock's scrawled out words would soothe him, yet he was distracted, surprised to find the post already sitting on the cluttered table, rifled through. One letter stood out, already opened and partially crumpled as though someone had crushed the envelope in their hand. He picked this up with some distant curiosity, taking a seat and keeping an ear open for Sherlock. The front of the envelope bore John's name and address as normal, no return statement put anywhere, leaving a curiously empty space.

Intrigued, he turned it over, nearly dropping it in the process. The top had been ripped open, leaving the closing flap and its copper seal in place. He felt his heart begin to roar at the sight of the anvil, hammer, and gear molded into the wax, a cold sweat beginning to form along his hair line as he pulled the slightly damaged yet still crisp yellow parchment from the confines.

"Gods…" The blaring violet ink met his eyes upon unfolding the letter, the words contained within drudging up violent images of the machine and screaming criminals. He rubbed a hand over his face, preparing himself for the condemning words within.

_Dr. John H. Watson, _

_ It has been made known through various resources that you have been neglecting your duty as a citizen of the metal-worker race. No actions towards finding a wife have been made, and no children have been reared. As a responsible and applicable sire, we regret to inform you that government intervention has been taken. All passport requests have been locked, and all attempts to leave metal-worker territory will be denied and met with severe consequences. You are now under surveillance until reports have proven yourself dependable on continuing our diminishing race. _

_ If, within five annuals, you have not either sired a child or taken in a wife, your arrest will be swift, and the machine will be your final destination. We here at the Department of Population hope you the best of luck, and pray Haldan be on your side. _

_In your best interests,_

_Timothy Havish  
><em>

_Representative of the Department of Population_

His hands shook as he closed his eyes, calming his breathing as best possible. The damnation, invoked in a short formal letter. He could almost hear the bell tolling; see the machine gleaming upon its raised platform, the crowd cheering for the last humiliating performance of a criminal. A nightmare realized after annuals of fearing it and in his hands was his only warning.

The quiet in the house picked at him and its eerie roar finally took hold as he rapidly opened his eyes, turning this way and that to look for some sign of Sherlock, a need for comfort rising. Dread began to seep in when he spotted no note, or any sign that the man had gone out. For a moment, he feared that someone had taken him within the night, sneaking in and stealing him away. It was then he realized a very crucial detail in his sitting room was missing; the violin, usually perched by the sofa for easy access by the ever bored man, was nowhere to be seen.

He nearly ran the way to Sherlock's room, a spark of hope coming to him when he noticed the door was firmly shut. He pressed his ear to the wood, searching for any noise. Unsatisfied with the hush beyond the blockade, he gently turned the knob, peeking inside.

"Sherlock?" The door swung wide, hitting the wall soundly, yet John hardly took notice for what was inside. The room itself held nothing out of the ordinary. The nest still stood and the small collection of magnifying glasses Sherlock had taken a particular fascination to where still lain out near the window. He nearly wanted to leave it, pretend everything was right and wait for Sherlock to reappear, yet he ventured to the dresser instead, pulling the drawers open with a solemn expression to find them empty. The silence turned from strange to icy cold, as he swallowed the lump in his throat. Anger began to form and he marched out, heading for the one person who would know more about this.

"Ah, John. So good to-"

"Why did he leave?" John was seething, unable to see straight as he stomped into Mycroft's office. The man before him was emotionless as ever, making the doctor want to punch him even more.

"The journey must have worn you out. You're limping." The man almost sneered as John came to a halt before him, teeth gritted. "Take a seat."

"I don't want to sit." John snapped, unsure of what to do with himself. He wanted to break something, scream, yet he kept it in, reminding himself he was in a government office with guards just down the hall. "He left."

"Clearly."

"He bloody left, and didn't even say goodbye." He felt the tears prick at his eyes, but shushed them back, glaring at the elder Holmes. "Why in Oruik's name would he do that?"

"Possibly to make the moment less tiresome. You are rather hysterical."

"I am no-" He stopped himself as he slammed his hands down on the desk before him. "This is you. You wanted him back, and now he is."

"I couldn't make Sherlock do a thing when he doesn't want to. He chose this of his own violation. I just gave the necessary tools and he did as he wished."

"You pushed him. Gave him the option."

"As any concerned brother should. Exemia is his home and he was putting an innocent life in danger by being here, correct?"

"Do-"

"Am I correct, Dr. Watson?" John pursed his lips, saying nothing, though Mycroft took this as a yes. "Good. Now, pray tell, why exactly are you in my office?"

"I-" John stopped, about to retort with something scathing, yet the expression on Mycroft's face made him paused. It wasn't one of smugness, or insufferable authority. He was truly sympathetic, frowning slightly, eyes relaxed. John could almost see his wings slumped in an empathetic fashion. "I…" He could feel himself breaking, those tears finally threatening to bowl over. He bowed his head a moment, closing his eyes and trying to regain himself as he began to shake.

"Sorry." He mumbled, turning around, and beginning to walk out before he made scene.

"John." Mycroft stopped him just as he opened the door, voice full of his own apology. John let his head turn just slightly as he paused, hand on the on the polished wood. "I would not be opposed to giving him letters if you wished to send any. I doubt he'd write back, but…" He let it hang, and John nodded as he let out what was supposed to be an affirmation yet came out as a broken sound, not surprised to feel the wet drop falling from his face.

He left then, hurrying to streets. The way home was a long one, each passerby a nameless face, and the busy city had never seemed so bleak and lonely. Not a single para bird could be seen on the grey rooftops or sidewalks, their golden plumage a mysterious absence on that bleak day.

* * *

><p><em>Ninth-month, tenth-day, 3083<em>

_Dear Sherlock, _

_It's strange without you here. A bit too quiet, and I can't tell if I enjoy having full use of my icebox again or not. I don't really know what to do with your nest, so I just left it in your room. Did you make a new one? I would assume so, though when you made this one, it seemed like a such a hassle. Mycroft says you have your own place now, in that city you grew up near. He says you settled down easily enough, which is good I suppose. He said you have a job. Is it detective work? I didn't remember to ask. I hope so, but then again, I don't really know the whole system works where you're from, but I'm sure whatever you do must stop you from being bored on some level._

_Mrs. Hudson misses you. She won't stop talking about all the dinners she made you have when you first came here while I worked. I wish I could've seen that. A few people have been asking where you went. Been weird telling them you went back. I keep coming home expecting to see you all over the couch as usual, but I guess that'll just take some getting used to. At least I can go back to only buying enough food for one now, though Mrs. Hudson has been cooking for me more. _

_I hope you write back. It'd be nice to hear from you again. _

_Sincerely,_

_John_

* * *

><p><em>Eleventh-month, fifteenth-day, 3083<em>

_Dear Sherlock, _

_Had tea with Molly the other day. She asked how you were getting on. I told her good, though I suppose I don't really know. Mycroft says your fine, but he's rather vague, and won't tell me too much. He says you got the first letter, so that's good at least. Can't really complain much about this place. Everything's the same as it was before, except I'm not risking my neck for realm's most insufferable man. My patients are happier with the steady scheduling but I forgot how tedious it all was before I had to follow you around everywhere. I'm still not used to the flat being so quiet._

_What's Exemia like? I didn't ask before, thought it was too intrusive. I always imagine it with trees all over the place and animals in every nook and cranny. Am I close? It'd be weird going there coming from this city. I never actually wondered what kind of culture shock you might've had when you stumbled into Gueir. _

_I found a feather of yours the other day, a black one, just sticking out of the sofa. I didn't know what to do with it, so I put it by my bed. Sounds kind of silly, writing that out, but I don't want to let go of it just yet. _

_I wish you would write back. _

_Sincerely,_

_John_

* * *

><p><em>Thirteenth-month, fifth-day, 3083<em>

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I dreamt of you last night. Actually, I dream of you a lot. Usually we're just doing some mad chase through the city. Sometimes we're in bed, just lying together. Sometimes we're doing more than that. The one last night was the worst, I think. We were in the sitting room like old times, with you playing your weird instrument, and I was watching. It was so real, when I woke up, I half expected you to be waiting on the sofa for me. I miss your violin, and you. _

_I didn't want you to go. I need you back. Frankly, I don't know what to do with myself ever since you left. It's hard going back to the flat after work, knowing you aren't there. I don't know what happened, what could've been, but now, I just...  
><em>

_I wake up some mornings, and I can still smell you here, lingering in the halls, on the sofa. It didn't leave my bed for a whole month, even after I changed the sheets. I find myself in your room without thinking. I haven't let it change since you left, and I don't think I could move anything out of there. I stand in the doorway and stare in, for minutes at a time. I know I should be out, finding a woman to settled down with, but something holds me back, and every single girl I meet can sense it. At least, that's what I like to believe. There are times I wonder if it would be better to hand myself into the officials, and face the machine head on, but my own cowardice keeps me from doing so.  
><em>

_I don't know how much more I can take. I just want you back here with me.  
><em>

_Sincerely,  
><em>

_John  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>Fourth-month, sixteenth-day, 3084<em>

_Dear Sherlock, _

_I've met someone, a lovely woman by the name of Mary Morstan. We are engaged to be knotted in four months' time. We met strangely enough as she was a patient of mine, but she is lovely, and wouldn't leave me be until I hand asked for her hand. I am writing this letter as a farewell to you and everything that may have been between us. I have been holding onto what could never have been for far too long, and with the prospect of a family, I have to let go. I sincerely hope that everything is going fine on your end, and that the rest of your long life is a happy and successful one. _

_I won't forget you, or the time we spent together, but this is the last you will hear from me. Goodbye and good luck, Sherlock. _

_Sincerely,_

_John_

* * *

><p><em>Resteif, thirty-one, 217(1),<em>

_John, _

_Situations in Trias have been brought to my attention and a request has been made for my return. I will be finding myself back in Trias in two weeks' time, and I do pray that you can accompany me once more to help track down the source of various crimes across Gueir. I fear Moriarty is at his game once more, and having you by my side would be greatly invaluable. _

_I will be seeing you quite soon.  
><em>

_Sherlock_

* * *

><p>1- In Trias, that would translate to eighth month, twenty third day, 3086.<p>

**Ending Author's Note of Interest to the Reader: **Hey look, the end! Though not technically. I kind of wanted this story to be a 'prequel' to a second part, that would focus more on plot then just getting the reader eased into the fantasy setting. I have it all planned out, but I'm not sure if I'll write it.

Anyways, hope you all enjoyed! I did, thoroughly. Let me know your closing thoughts on this, and maybe we'll see each other again in the form of a second story!


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